


Holler Me Home

by ooihcnoiwlerh



Series: Richie and Eddie Adventures [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Coming Out, Divorce, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, First Time Blow Jobs, First Time Bottoming, First Time Topping, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gay Richie Tozier, Internalized Homophobia, Long-Distance Friendship, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostate Massage, Repression, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Skype, a middle-aged repressed traumatized man loves same, and bottom Richie Tozier, but skews more top Eddie Kaspbrak, switching rights, the losers go to therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:28:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 50,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22431874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ooihcnoiwlerh/pseuds/ooihcnoiwlerh
Summary: Life goes on after Derry.  And sometimes it's really difficult.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Richie and Eddie Adventures [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1534970
Comments: 49
Kudos: 144





	1. I Want my Chest Pressed to your Chest/My Nervous System Interferes

**Author's Note:**

> -I was working on this for a few months, but was unsure how to proceed in a lot of ways, but finished a fair amount of it recently, while trying to get through both the flu and the death of my cat and needing some escapism.  
> -This is much more movie-based than book-based, although there are a few elements of the latter.

They drive back to the Townhouse; Eddie fiddles with his phone.

“This is going to be rough,” Eddie says. 

As if on autopilot (come on, Eddie makes it so easy) Richie starts with, “Funny. I remember your mom saying—”

“Oh my God, she’s _dead_ , Richie.” Eddie sets his phone down. “Anyway, I _meant_ getting divorced was going to be rough.”

“Yeah, considering who you married,” Richie starts, and Eddie is immediately shaking his head.

“It was both of us. Yeah, she’s exactly like my mom, hilarious and all that. Doesn’t mean _I_ wasn’t part of why our marriage sucked. She had no idea who I really was. She didn’t know what my mom did to me. She didn’t know I, I fucking.” He takes a deep breath. _“I_ didn’t really know who I was. There was so much missing and I didn’t even…” he takes a deep breath. Richie wonders, vaguely nervous, if this is when Eddie would normally pull out his inhaler. He certainly would have been back in the day. 

“Do you want me to pull over?” he asks. He glances at Eddie as he sighs, closes his eyes, and shakes his head.

“No. No. I’m going to be okay.” 

Richie rubs Eddie’s shoulder, sure Eddie will chew him out for not keeping both hands on the wheel at all times, before pulling into the hotel lot. Eddie doesn’t do this but in fact squeezes Richie’s hand briefly as it rests there. 

They stay that way for several minutes; Richie will wait as long as Eddie needs him to.

Eddie doesn’t reach for an inhaler that’s no longer there. He closes his eyes again, opens them, and looks nervously over at Richie.

Richie doesn’t know if he’s acting too close, if Eddie wants more, so he moves at a glacial pace; he brings his hand to the curve of Eddie’s cheek, to the faint shadow of stubble and his bandage, and unbuckles his seatbelt with his free hand.

Eddie gives no resistance, says nothing as Richie leans forward and kisses his cheek, the skin just beside the bandage. After a second of hesitation, as Richie is pulling away, Eddie leans in and gently grips the back of Richie’s neck.

Their foreheads touch; Eddie stays there, breathing steady. All Richie can focus on is Eddie’s fingers on his skin and lips once again so close to his. He thinks about how he’s constantly craved _closeness_ and affection from Eddie through the years, and while he always had it in a sense, this, this is different. It’s compounded into something Richie doesn’t know how to name and is scared he’ll break.

“Thank you, Richie,” Eddie says before pulling away.

There’s no one in the lobby; either everyone’s trying to get a nap to make up for the past sleepless night of eldritch horror or trying to wrap up loose ends before they go home. Sounds like a pretty good idea, to be honest. He looks over at Eddie, wondering if maybe he would be amenable to a nap together. He thinks about how he’s always wanted to be close to Eddie; wasn’t always sexual, but was always affectionate, at least as far as he could get away with it.

“Wanna come up? Hang out for a bit?” he asks.

Eddie tilts his head; there’s a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He looks calmer, as though he’s neither crawling out of his skin nor ready to blow a fuse. “Sure. I’ll need to make a pit stop first but you’re not too far out of the way,” he says as he shakes his bag of prescriptions.

Richie gets to his room and wonders, how is this real? He has his childhood friends back _and_ Eddie wants him back? How is it that he’s actually, truly happy for the first time in decades? 

It takes longer than Richie planned for Eddie to arrive. A minute passes, and then five. Richie fishes out his phone and notes several furious texts from both his manager and agent followed by a more restrained reminder that he has to be in Reno in three days. 

_Did Eddie change his mind?_ Richie thinks not three seconds before he hears a knock. Five seconds after that Eddie’s inside and Richie is kissing him up against the closed door. Thirteen-year-old Richie would absolutely be proud to know that he would one day be making out with Eddie Kaspbrak, even if it is twenty-seven years late. And he has so little experience kissing men and yet it’s so fucking effortless; he’s never really enjoyed it before this and Eddie’s got one hand buried in Richie’s hair and somehow _Eddie likes it too_

Richie brings one hand to Eddie’s cheek and brings his thumb over the bandage there; Eddie will look fucking badass with a face scar, Richie thinks. _Like a Bond villain_. 

He tentatively pushes his hips forward, presses against Eddie and almost groans at the feeling of them lined up together, his hands on Eddie’s hips and Eddie’s heart beats as fast as his own. But that’s when hears— _feels_ —a sharp intake of breath, and feels Eddie turn his head away just long enough to speak.

“Rich, I…I think we should…” there’s a note in his voice that makes Richie stand back and wonder if _he_ would benefit from Eddie’s bullshit inhaler.

_I fucking ruined it again he changed his mind he doesn’t want me_

“I want to wait until I’m actually divorced.” Eddie finishes in a rush. He glances down as Richie finds his footing and takes another step back, then glances back up. Those big, sad, doe eyes didn’t change a bit over the years. He clears his throat and clarifies, as if Richie didn’t get it immediately, “I’d feel like a piece of shit if I didn’t at least wait until I wasn’t married anymore.”

It’s not what Richie expected. He’s not sure _what_ he expected; he’d of course hoped that they’d stumble into bed and he could begin to live out every fantasy he’s ever had about Eddie

 _Which is stupid, which is fucking_ stupid _because you’d probably burst into tears the moment his hands went below the belt_

He’d feared that all this, from the seven of them surviving to Eddie’s kiss, was some elaborate hoax concocted by a still-living Pennywise and that Eddie was dead and they were still stuck underground about to get eaten. 

“Richie?” Eddie prompts him. He looks nervous, as if Richie could possibly say no to him. 

Richie realizes he hasn’t said anything. “I forgot we actually have normal adult responsibilities and shit,” he says.

“I mean, _I_ do. I had to call in a lot of last-minute favors at work to be here on such short notice,” Eddie says. His normal, white-collar corporate job Richie would never have been able to stand.

“You’re really an essential at Buzzkill Headquarters, huh?”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “My job involves keeping people safe and I’m not going to apologize for it. But since you asked, I am in fact pretty high up on the ladder and I’m always there. Sometimes ninety hours a week if necessary.”

Richie winces. “ _Why?_ ”

The question seems to take Eddie by surprise. His eyes widen and he opens his mouth. Then closes it. Then, after a moment, “I don’t…my job is necessary and I’m good at it. And I make good money doing it.

“So…are you okay with it? With waiting a while?” he asks. 

It’s Richie’s turn to be surprised. He stares, stunned. “Eddie, I just found out that my crush of thirty years actually wants to fuck me and you’re wondering if it’s too much for me to wait a few more months for that to happen?”

Eddie shrugs almost angrily. “I can’t read your mind!” he says.

“And thank God you can’t. It’s fucking filthy up here.”

“I’m well aware. You were Trashmouth long before you had a standup career.” Eddie grins and steps away from the door, closer to Richie. He opens his mouth to speak again when they hear a knock on the door.

It’s Bill. He looks about as exhausted as he probably feels, but in decent spirits. Like, oh, he’s been able to let go of some real fucking emotional baggage that he didn’t even realize was keeping him down for years.

“Hey, guys. I just wanted to say goodbye.” No stutter. _Interesting_. Something for Richie to file away and consider when his brain isn’t fried.  
“You’re not staying for dinner?” Eddie asks. Bill’s eyes flick, interested, downward and Richie notices what Bill sees: Eddie took off his wedding ring. 

Bill doesn’t comment on it, other than briefly lock eyes with Eddie with a small smile. “Wish I could. I held up production long enough and my ass is about to get sued if I don’t go back to set immediately.”

“With a better ending?” Richie asks.

“Brilliant. Okay, which one of us actually does their own writing here?” Bill says, but he still seems to be in a decent mood.

“Don’t be a dick, dude; that’s my job. And I plan on changing that. The writing thing, anyway.”

“Thought that was why you guys called me Big Bill,” Bill says before the rest of Richie’s statement registers. “Shit, that’s great. You were always funnier than your standup. Can’t believe I didn’t remember you then.”

Richie groans. “What is it with you and Eddie versus my ghostwriter?” he asks before Bill pulls first him into a hug, and then Eddie.

“I should be able to facetime you guys tonight from the airport. If you check your phones, you’ll notice Mike made a group chat for everyone.”

Bill says nothing about the fact that Eddie and Richie are together, alone in Richie’s room and that Eddie’s taken off his wedding ring. Maybe he doesn’t know. Maybe it’s too subtle since he saw them fully clothed and not actively having sex; either way, Richie is somewhat relieved Bill hasn’t asked any questions. He’d rather just say everything when it’s all of them in one spot and Eddie has been able to mention his pending divorce first. He makes a mental note to ask Eddie what he thinks as they both wave goodbye at Bill, who heads downstairs.

After a moment, Eddie says, “He seemed better.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Richie lifts his glasses long enough to rub the bridge of his nose. His exhaustion runs bone-deep and he wants to sink into bed for a long time. He hasn’t gotten a decent night’s sleep in, well, in much longer than he’s been back in Derry if he’s being honest with himself. But in the past two days he’s gotten roughly four hours. He looks over at the room’s clock— _one PM. Amazing_ —and then at Eddie. Now that the possibility of sex, at least for now, is out of the question, Richie realizes just how exhausted he is.

“So…” he sticks his hands in his pockets, “I was thinking of taking a nap,” he says, “And no, that’s not a euphemism for anything.”

Eddie glances at Richie’s bed and back, considering.

“Me too. But I don’t trust whoever runs this place to wash the linens.” He wrinkles his nose and then stops when the movement pulls at his bandage.

Richie almost expected this. “Dude. C’mon. They have to change the linens every day. It’s fine.” He pictures Eddie examining every stain in his room with a blacklight and smiles. He shouldn’t be charmed by this, but it’s Eddie, so he is.

“I refuse to believe anything in Derry is up to code,” Eddie says. “C’mere.”

He leads Richie the next room over and Richie almost laughs at the change of spread. 

“You brought your own,” Richie says, not quite amazed. “Of _course_ you brought your own.”

Eddie offers a small half smile and sits down on the bed. Richie sits beside him, and waits.

Eddie stops and starts a couple of times before he starts for real. “I don’t know how it was for you,” he says, “but when I started remembering, after the call, I remembered that there’d been someone. I didn’t have a face or a name to it, just a voice. And a feeling. Someone who annoyed me like no one else could and made me happier than I’ve ever felt and I wondered, how the hell could I have forgotten this? 

“And then I saw you.” Eddie smiles. “You, with the same glasses and that goddamn smile and I was like, _fuck_. It wasn’t, _how’d I forget I was friends as a kid with a comedian_? It was, how’d I forget that there’d been someone who’d made me feel this way? I’d had the biggest crush on this guy who’d made it his life’s mission to piss me off and what’s more,” Eddie takes a deep breath. “What’s more, it was when we started talking that I realized I’d been missing something, like I was empty and you came along and I felt complete in a way I’d never remembered. It wasn’t the others that did it—I love them all, don’t get me wrong, and my life is a whole shit-ton better now that they’re back in it, but it was _you_.”

Richie can’t suppress the warmth that settles in his chest, the giddiness tempered by real contentment he never thought possible. The words, _I love you_ build in his throat.

What comes out is, “You had a crush on me?”

Eddie pulls back, brow furrowed. “I— _you_ had a crush on _me_ ,” he retorts, voice rising, and for a second they’re thirteen again, pre-Pennywise, and Richie would insist that the scariest thing he’s ever seen is Eddie’s mom’s vagina.

“C’mon! I’m having a revelation! I’d always thought I was the only one! I thought I’d go to my grave only hoping you could ever like me back. You have any idea how nerve-wracking it was sharing a hammock with you? I mean, it was exactly what I wanted, but every time it was like, ‘ _Please God don’t let me pop a boner right now_.’”

Eddie laughs a little, eyes bright as he says, “I kept joining you in the hammock _because_ I liked you, dork. If I really hadn’t wanted you in there with me, I could’ve just tipped it sideways and sent you to the floor like a sack of potatoes. You weren’t _that_ much bigger than me.”

“You’re in denial over how tiny you were. That’s fine,” Richie says even as his face flushes. _Eddie liked him back. Eddie had a crush on him too. Eddie had been flirting back in his own inept way_.

Eddie groans. “Oh, give me a break. I’m taller than Bev and Bill and almost as tall as Stan. Just because you broke the six-foot barrier doesn’t mean I’m short. Don’t be a dick.”

Richie laughs. “C’mon. I was always a dick. I didn’t know how else to flirt; I was thirteen.”

“I plied you with food. You tell me which worked better.” _Shit, really?_ That _was what he’d been doing?_

“Oh, yours did. I had no idea you were flirting, but the food was great.”

“I just wanted your attention. Still do.”

Richie feels his cheeks color and now he almost stammers like B-B-Bill. “Never thought you’d finally admit you enjoy my company, Eddie Spaghetti!”

Eddie makes a face and twists away. “You haven’t called me that since we were eleven,” he says. 

“You loved it.” Richie can’t stop the pull of a smile and nudges Eddie with his shoulder. He’s fucking giddy, feels like he could float and delights in the pink tinges in Eddie’s cheeks.

“I hated it. It was demeaning.”

Richie grins wider and rubs Eddie’s back. “But you were adorable! Didn’t I tell you how adorable you were?” _Cute, cute, cute!_

“Fuck you,” Eddie says, but there’s still a faint grin tugging at his mouth. “I take it back, you’re a fucking menace.”

“Too late, Spaghetti Eds, it’s already out there.” Richie’s face still feels warm; the rhythm hasn’t changed since they were kids. Just like at dinner the other night, he settles back into his old ways: _I must spend every moment annoying this person_.

“ _Spaghetti Eds_?” Eddie sputters, voice raising in pitch, and he stands and paces before turning back to Richie. “That might be the worst thing you ever came up with.”

Richie notices how Eddie’s hand bisects the air as he talks, and takes it as a sign to pile on the petulance. “Worse than the jokes about plowing your mom?”

Eddie winces. “Oh, _fuck_. I just realized the jokes about my mom were what led to your jokes about your girlfriend catching you jerking off to her sister’s Instagram or whatever the hell it was,” he says as he finally sits back down.

“I tweak that one, too. Or my ghost-writer does, anyway. As long as it’s about a nameless girlfriend people think I’m that shitty to her.” _By which I mean some people actually think I’m a fucking creep, and this is the platform that they support_.

And that immediately prompts a shift in Eddie, who shifts his weight, furrows his brow and says, “But, _do_ you…?”

 _Have a girlfriend? Why on earth would you think that? You’ve seen me these past few days_ and _you heard me come out_ , Richie wonders before considering, well. Eddie’s _married._ And it’s not like Richie _hasn’t_ dated women in failed, desperate attempts to either force himself straight or at least make people believe he is. 

“Not in years,” Richie tells him. 

Eddie’s eyes are impossibly wide. “Really?” he says.

“Yeah,” Richie says, takes a deep breath, and utters a few of the more embarrassing truths about himself he could possibly say. He tells himself that Eddie should know what he’s getting himself into if they do plan on dating or having sex at any point in the future, which…that it’s even on the table seems impossible to Richie. He can’t help but wonder when the other shoe will drop, when Eddie will decide Richie is too much and leave.

“I haven’t dated a woman in eight years unless you count a fake PR relationship two years ago where we barely shook hands. I’ve _never_ worked up the courage to date another man. And I…” he briefly wonders if he should go with the best euphemism or most potentially disgusting term before continuing, “I haven’t been with anyone but myself in about a year.”

Eddie seems to take it all in stride, but there’s a forced-casual air to him when he says, “Oh, same.”

Richie tries to parse through it. “Which one?” he asks.

Eddie looks down, back up, and hesitates. “I’ve never been with a man. And also…” he tilts his head. _You know_.

Richie should probably mention that while he’s never been in a relationship with another man, he _has_ , as the kids would say, ‘been with’ men in some capacity. “A whole year, huh?” he says. 

He didn’t really speculate, or rather, didn’t _want_ to speculate about Eddie’s current or former sex life. And he can’t help but feel a little relieved that Eddie isn’t exactly overcome with lust over a woman who looks like a polished, neater version of his mother.

Eddie takes and exhales a deep breath, forearms resting on his knees. He seems fixated on his shoes as he says, “A little more than that.” He doesn’t look at Richie for a moment. He doesn’t go morose, but there’s a nervousness as he looks back up and says, “What, no jokes?”

Richie shrugs, throat tight. “It’s still, like, seven years more recently than _I’ve_ been with a woman, so…”

Richie sees Eddie do the math in his head.

“So…” Eddie tilts his head. “You’ve hooked up with men before.” Richie tries to detect some sort of judgment, but instead he’s pretty sure all he finds is curiosity.

 _Hooked up_ indeed. There were, over the years, a number of rushed handjobs and blowjobs in the dark with men whose names he’d never learn and who he’d never see again, all while trying to fight the wave of nausea once the serotonin wore off and he was left with a voice in his head that sounded a lot like Bowers, now that he thinks about it.

Richie doesn’t look at Eddie and tries to keep his voice light. “A few times. None of them stuck around. Wouldn’t have known what to do with them if they had.”

He exhales, tries to laugh it off. The fucking _shame_ of it all, the constant _fear_ once he started gaining popularity that someone would tell a single person, make a single tweet and the world would know

_Richie Trashmouth Tozier is a_

Hell, maybe it was just the fear that every moment was real. A confirmation that yes, two minutes in a darkened bathroom stall with a random, faceless man was far more physically gratifying to him than any amount of time with any beautiful woman.

Eddie’s still sitting next to him, and Richie still can’t face him. That is, until Eddie speaks. 

“Well, _I’m_ sticking around.”

Richie looks up. Eddie’s eyes are like coal. 

“I’m serious. As long as you want me, I’m not going anywhere. You think I’m just going to let go of someone who can talk more than me? Or someone who really knows who I am and still likes me anyway? You’re the most insufferable person I know and you’re fucking amazing and I can’t get enough of you.” His voice rises in volume and pitch as he talks and by the end he looks almost red, and Richie, for once, doesn’t know what to say. What the hell _can_ he say?

“I mean it,” Eddie says. He hesitates before placing his hand over Richie’s, and the shock of even that amount of skin on skin is so much all at once.   
_Eddie Kaspbrak is holding his hand oh God_

Richie glances down at Eddie’s hand; the pale circle where his ring was. Eddie notices Richie’s stare and looks down, too.

“Felt like when I threw out my inhaler,” he says quietly. “I knew it was bullshit, I knew I didn’t need it and was better off without it, but I was still scared to get rid of it.”

Richie finds his voice. “I’m proud of you,” he says, and Eddie’s eyes go wide. He looks as though he’s frozen on the spot, but before Richie can say anything else, Eddie leans forward, cups Richie’s cheek and kisses him again. The kiss grows heated; Richie isn’t sure he can stop it from going there any more than Eddie is, and he’s left to wonder, _is Eddie getting better and better at kissing every time we do this?_ and worries about being able to keep his hands to himself if every moment with Eddie, knowing the possibility is there eventually, is going to keep teasing at him. They shift closer together, and Richie wraps an arm around Eddie.

Eddie breaks away, catching his breath. 

“Uh,” he says after a moment.

“Should we just…?” Richie starts lamely.

“Take a nap in separate rooms? Yeah. Probably for the best.”

Richie should, and in some ways does feel disappointed. But he’s still adjusting to the giddy fact that Eddie gets flustered, Eddie is responsive, Eddie _actually appears to be physically attracted to him_.

Richie shuffles over to his own room, where he’s pretty sure he’s a bit too riled up to go to sleep, but he’s fucking wrong. The moment he lies down and gets the sheets over him he’s out with not one clown-related nightmare, and doesn’t wake up until he hears a knocking on the door and opens it to find not Eddie, but Ben asking what he’d like for dinner and telling him that he and Bev are heading out at eight. Richie notices, again, _Bev and I_ ; _Bev and Ben_. He probably should’ve picked up on it earlier, and blames his lack of insight on his own thirty-year crush and a killer clown before saying, “Anything but Chinese.” If he weren’t groggy and felt bolder at that time, he’d ask Ben if he’d also felt that moment, of running into someone he didn’t remember he’d missed so badly and had loved so much. If life had been also fucking crushingly lonely despite the financial and professional success he’d found. And if the moment he’d seen Bev everything had clicked into place, only to have to act like seeing her wasn’t a complete revelation. He’d missed them all, loved them all, but seeing this one person was the moment he started to feel like everything made sense again. Maybe Richie will ask someday.

It’s just after five. Richie has a flight tomorrow at noon, where he’ll have less than a day to get enough of his shit for four days in Reno, then five in Vegas. He glances down at his own phone and a brusque text from his manager demanding he call back.

Fucking adult responsibilities, he thinks and listens to Steve, his manager since he first found out he needed one, tell him that there’s been allegations that Richie Tozier had a drug-induced breakdown. Seemed like the only logical reason for his recent behavior.

“Just tell me if it’s drugs. We can work with it, but you’ll have to agree to rehab—”

“It’s not drugs. It’s tough to explain.” 

“Well, you’re gonna have to. This doesn’t look good; I cannot stress that enough.” 

Richie considers everything. Is he going to come out to his manager? Yes. Yes, he is. Steve isn’t homophobic, and won’t drop him for it. It’ll be fine, he tells himself. “I’ll explain everything when I get to Reno. Steve, I promise you it’s not drugs.”

“So what do I tell everyone then? That you needed a sabbatical in small-town New England after bombing onstage?”

“Tell them,” Richie runs a hand through his hair. “Tell whoever’s asking whatever you think is best. I received some personal news that I didn’t adjust to well right before the show and also needed to go to a reunion in my childhood town. Or something. Do what you need to do, I’ll see you in two days.”

“You fucking owe me a proper explanation when you do, Tozier,” Steve says. He sounds like he has so much more he wants to say. 

Too bad. Richie ends the call and checks his phone for anything from this group message chat. Bill has texted, _missing you guys already._

Richie smiles. And texts back a poop emoji before sitting down at the room’s desk. He needs to start writing his own material again if he wants to perform it.

Some of the jokes are a little too weird to really blend in with the style he’s built for himself and need to be workshopped; he writes out a couple of clown jokes that seem legit, and a few others about growing up in a small town. He knows his jokes typically have a self-deprecating air to them, and that probably won’t stop anytime soon. They just won’t have the constant assurances that if he’s not actively fucking a woman that he’s thinking about it. 

At five-fifty-five he’s had enough and stops outside Eddie’s door.

Before he can knock, he hears Eddie on the phone. He can’t understand a word of it, but he hears the tone in Eddie’s voice. Frustrated, then almost pleading, then seemingly furious—before silence. 

He wonders if he should knock. 

Should he just head downstairs?

The door opens before Richie can answer his own question and he sees Eddie, mouth drawn tight as he just about runs into Richie.

“How much of that did you hear?” he says dully. Richie wants to take him into his arms and hold him close.

“For what it’s worth, I didn’t _understand_ any of it,” he says.

Eddie nods to himself before shoving his hands in his pockets and saying, “I’m guessing you know what it was all about.”

Yeah, he has an idea. He doesn’t know what the hell to do. He knows he’s not the reason Eddie’s getting a divorce; their issues run deeper than some foul-mouthed closet-case funnyman. Richie doesn’t know all of it, and won’t pretend to. And he hasn’t exactly been the friend people go to for guidance, as if he could possibly say anything useful here.

“Eds,” he starts, and doesn’t know where to go from there. Eddie looks exhausted. Right now Richie can see every sleepless night and anxiety attack Eddie’s ever had and he just wants to help him. He doesn’t know who else knows how easily Richie could have lost him today. He doesn’t know if Bev and Mike know that with two seconds difference, Eddie could be rotting below ground right now. He doesn’t know if that image will haunt him forever. What he knows is that Eddie’s standing right in front of him and Richie has so much he wants to tell him. 

Eddie’s expression melts into a weary smile. “I’m glad you’re here with me,” he tells him.

Richie doesn’t get choked up. He _absolutely_ doesn’t feel like his heart will burst with the flood of affection, thirty years pent up and without end for the short, ferocious, incredible man in front of him. Instead he stands closer, awkwardly puts his arms out, and before he knows it, he’s hugging Eddie as fiercely as he ever has.

He brings one hand to the back of Eddie’s head and strokes his hair; Eddie’s heart is beating so fast as he wraps his arms around Richie in turn and God, Richie just wants to tell him, _I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere, either_

Except _he is_. They both are. Tomorrow they’ll be on opposite sides of the coast for what, weeks? Months? How soon can Richie fly to New York and will Eddie even want him there while he’s going through a divorce with Sonia Kaspbrak 2.0? How long does divorce last in New York?

All thoughts go out the window when Eddie pulls back and cradles the side of Richie’s face with one warm, gentle hand; his thumb brushes over graying stubble and almost catches on the stems of his glasses. Richie doesn’t know how to be vulnerable, or wanting, but with the way Eddie’s looking at him, dark eyes cataloguing everything and his touch so fucking tender, he feels _wanted_.

He hears the floorboards creak and the spell is broken. Eddie pulls his hand away and they both turn to see Stan, looking very much like he’d like to disappear into the floorboards themselves for betraying him like this.

And Richie, Richie freezes. For a moment he’s fucking terrified; there’s no way Stan could possibly interpret what he just saw as platonic, and he’s taken back to 1989, to 1995, to last year, thinking, _Have I been caught?_

But if he bolts, he hurts Eddie. He can’t do that to Eddie, who’s probably got his own fucking can of worms and had that fucking nightmare of a mother to deal with, a wife Richie has never met nor does he ever want to, and who is also staring, impossibly wide-eyed at Stan, who just wanted to walk down a hallway to the staircase below.

“Hey. Just passing through,” Stan says. “They rented out the dining room downstairs for the night so,” he jerks his head in the direction of the stairs. “See you there.”

Once Stan’s gone, Richie glances back at Eddie, who sighs. “Shall we?” Eddie asks.

Richie glances at the stairs first. “Do you wanna tell ‘em?” he asks. He will totally get it when Eddie says no, he’s not ready to tell them or to say he’s actually in a relationship. They _are_ in a relationship, right? Does Eddie know Richie loves him? Does he know Richie will take whatever he can get?

Eddie looks back at him and, without hesitation, says, “If you’re comfortable with it, yeah. We’re not the only ones with something going on, anyway.” He offers a little smile before remembering himself and adding, “But I should mention I’m getting divorced first.”

Richie smiles back. 

The seven of them—technically six of them, in terms of people actually renting rooms here—seem to be the only guests at the Derry Townhouse, which suits them just fine. All the more freedom for them to be loud in what the hotel has called ‘the dining room/conference area’ that consists of a long, narrow table Ben and Bev have stacked with pizza from the corner restaurant and a couple containers of salad and breadsticks, complete with bottled water and plastic cups, plates, and cutlery. There’s also a large bottle of wine and two six-packs, of which everyone partakes except Eddie, who cites his antibiotics. When Eddie then hesitates at the sight of the pizza, Ben assures him, “Don’t worry. The small box has a gluten free crust.”

Eddie thanks him and gives Richie a look as if to say, _So, yeah. Still not sure if I’m actually allergic. Yeah, I know_. _I’m a neurotic hypochondriac._

Richie shrugs. _Get a blood test or something when you get the chance_. _No harm, no foul. You’re not a burden to any of us either way_.

“So we’ve got the dining room reserved all night,” Bev tells them. “But unfortunately, me and Ben are gonna have to head out by eight.”

Richie says, “So am I right in guessing congratulations are in order? Or whatever people say when their two most insufferably beautiful friends finally get together?”

Bev looks up at Ben, who wraps an arm around her shoulders even as he flushes under the praise and attention. It’s all the confirmation Richie needs. They raise a toast to Ben and Bev. _To better late than never._

Mike sets up his phone on a little stand in the center, where Bill has set up facetime while he’s just landed in O’Hare and is waiting for his connecting flight back to LA. Richie doesn’t know what he expected; maybe some morbid part of him thought Bill would go, “Who the fuck are you people?” but no. He remembers. It’s been only a few hours anyway. Of course he’d remember, right?

He wishes everyone hello from his spot at a bar in the airport, where his connecting flight has been delayed. “ _I mean, they can’t fire me from my own movie for that, right?_ ”

Everyone notices that Eddie took off his wedding ring; it seems as though everyone expected it. Still, nobody talks about it at first, casting meaningful glances at Eddie’s hand. Only Bev, the other one currently making the journey from “married to a clone of my parent” to “reconnecting with my childhood friends/shacking up with one specifically” who mentions it, or really has the right to. Who else other than her would really _get_ it?

Eddie says, face blank as he can make it, “I’m getting divorced.” His voice sounds cool. Challenging, even. Like he’s daring the other Losers to tell him he’s making a mistake. Like they couldn’t understand what he’s going through, and perhaps they can’t relate to his exact situation, but all seven of them went in with severe trauma six of the seven of them could not remember or understand and they all have plenty of therapy to look forward to. Everyone offers their sympathies and encouragement, of, “ _Well, if you feel that’s the best decision, we support you_ ” and looks at Richie ( _they must know; must instinctively know he’s involved, holy shit_ ) who makes a show of sighing and setting down his beer.

“You guys found me out. My marriage to a one Sonia Kaspbrak was a lie and no, I never actually banged fifty girls by the time I was thirteen. Also,” he swallows and glances at Eddie, then at the other Losers. Six people who for some reason love him for the fucking ridiculous wreck of a person that he is, who understand him in a way that not even his family ever did.

_Say it, Richie. You’ve said it once today already. You can do this._

“Also, I’m gay.” 

He has no real expectations here. For what it’s worth, though, the world doesn’t implode, no one screams, no tears are shed.

Instead, almost immediately, everyone launches into some variation of, “ _Thank you for telling us_.” He realizes quickly that no one seems surprised, and isn’t sure if he should feel disappointed by this. He spent forty years lying to himself, his family, the world, and, well, at least it’s out in the open now. And at least no one says, “ _Yeah, in other news, water is wet. We’ve known forever, Trashmouth_.” He feels Eddie shift beside him and feels a hand on his back, rubbing a comforting circle on the space between his shoulder blades, and some part of Richie just melts. 

“Hey,” Eddie says, and Richie looks at him and those beautiful brown eyes and that crooked little smile. “I’m proud of you.”

 _That’s my line,_ Richie thinks, and thinks that he’d really like to kiss Eddie right now. But he can’t, not in front of anyone. He’s not there yet.

 _He’s not ready._ It sinks in that yeah, he’s still got so much shit to sift through with his own internal problems and none of them will be solved overnight.

He wants to be better, be braver, for himself and for Eddie. And yet here he is, unable to move forward the way he wants to.

“Thank you, Eds,” he says, finally. He wraps an arm around Eddie’s shoulder and rubs a quick hand a long his opposite arm. For what it’s worth, his arm stays wrapped around Eddie’s shoulders, or, at times, draped along Eddie’s chair. People will notice. He knows people will notice. He keeps his arm there.  
Eddie’s still looking at him and shrugs. “Well, y’know. Not straight, either,” he says in a rush, like he’s ripping off a band-aid. Richie notices Eddie’s fists clench and then relax, and his eyes like saucers. _You’re braver than you think_. Richie hopes Eddie knows it’s true. 

Richie tightens his arm around Eddie. _I love you so much_ , he thinks, chest tight. He hears everyone offer congratulations to Eddie for coming out, gratitude towards both him and Richie for feeling comfortable in their presence enough to do so. The world doesn’t end. Everyone’s fine. Or rather, everyone is a traumatized mess but ready to start living properly and everyone’s fine with Richie and Eddie. 

Richie manages to get in one Scarface reference that makes Eddie groan and everyone else laugh. Richie finds himself relaxing again in slow degrees.

Mike has spent the afternoon with Stan, who’s helping him look for a new home. Mike was trapped here for forty years and spent so much of it isolated. He deserves the home of his fucking dreams. And while he didn’t make much as a public librarian, particularly when accounting for student loans, he’s been saving for years, and didn’t touch any of what he inherited when his grandfather sold the family farm and when he passed away. He’s got the money to put a down payment on somewhere nice near the Florida beach with enough left over to travel wherever he chooses. Bill offers to help him move when he finds a place; his movie will have wrapped by then and he has easily the most portable job out of any of them. 

“If you want to visit the west coast, my tour’s almost over. Feel free to stop by and experience fish tacos and the most pretentious asshats you’ll ever meet,” Richie says.

Bev holds up her hand. “Gotta stop you right there. _Manhattan_ is the home of pretentious asshats. And also, offer is open if you want to visit.”

“Or Suffolk County, if you want,” Ben offers.

Eddie says, “As soon as I have a new place to live, I’ll be happy to have people over.”

Richie then finds everyone’s eyes on him, as if to say, _Well? Are you not going to bring your firmly New York-based boyfriend with you?_

No, he wants to say, and not just because Eddie would probably despise LA. Going between Manhattan and Huntington is a chore, sure, but it’s fucking feasible. Eddie’s got a divorce he should stay in New York for, and a job that doesn’t exactly let him uproot and start somewhere else whenever he wants. Richie’s not going to ask Eddie to scrap everything and move thousands of miles away, and he knows Eddie can’t exactly snap his fingers and be magically free to do whatever he wants.

But again, Bev understands well enough and says, “A friend of mine is subletting her place in Chelsea. I can hook you up, if you want.”

Eddie smiles. “Thanks, Bev. I’d really appreciate that.”

It occurs to Richie again that he and Eddie haven’t said, _by the way, we’re pseudo-dating and plan on boning down once the divorce goes through_ , but the others clearly know. They know, and they say nothing. Maybe they can tell how frayed both Richie and Eddie’s nerves are. They say goodbye to Bill when he has to sign off. Somehow Richie is certain they’ll be seeing Bill again. Probably not too far down the road, either.

Far too soon Bev and Ben start to make their goodbyes as well. Ben gives him a knowing smile as he pulls him into a hug as Bev pulls Eddie aside and whispers something to him. Eddie nods, looking somber, before hugging her.

When it’s Richie’s turn, Bev murmurs in his ear, “You ever need someone to talk to, you have my number. Use it whenever you want.” 

“You, too,” he tells her. _I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you when you had to deal with_ him _, but I promise you from now on I’ll be there for you whenever you need me_. “I’m a fantastic listener. And I’m guessing also your handsomest gay friend, right?” _Enough time has passed that he can joke about it, right? Please God say he’s allowed to joke about it. He can barely handle saying it out loud without making jokes about it._

Bev laughs and pulls Richie into a hug as he says, “Is that a yes? I know you work in fashion but I’m assuming that’s a yes.”

The party continues afterwards when it’s down to four, but the truth is that even with a nap they’re all middle-aged men who have a lot to do tomorrow, so tearing it up until morning is out of the question.

“What time’s your flight tomorrow?” Eddie asks, yawning.

“Noon. Should probably wake myself up at eight or something. Only times I voluntarily wake up that early are for flights and killing clowns.” 

“I know almost nothing about a working comedian’s internal clock, but I genuinely believe that to be true,” Eddie says.

Richie scoffs. “I mean, _you_ probably wake up at five AM every morning.” _To go to the gym, presumably. And make your own green juice at home because you don’t trust juice bars. And yet I’m so attracted to you I feel like I’m hitting a second puberty._

Eddie’s grinning as he takes the bait. “As opposed to going to sleep at five AM, bro?”

Richie shrugs. “It’s a living.” It’s a pretty good living, at that, but. Well. Eddie saw at least one of his stand-up specials.

“How long is the rest of your tour?” Stan asks, and Richie almost jumps. He of course didn’t forget Eddie wasn’t the only other person there, it’s just…Eddie tends to take up his attention, whether he actively demands it or not.

“Just the next week and a half. Reno, Vegas, then back home to Loz Feliz. Then I’m taking as much of a break as I can.” 

“Sounds good. I’d already booked my vacation before all this, thank God.” Stan looks sedate and content, a million times better than he did a day ago. “But if I see a fucking red balloon ever again, especially in Argentina, I will lose my shit.”

“It’s dead,” Mike assures him. “Any red balloon you ever see will just be a balloon.”

“I believe you,” Stan says. “I felt It die. I’m just saying, some things are never going to be the same for me again.”

“Tell me about it,” Eddie says. “Next time I see a Pomeranian, it’s going to take everything I have not to punt it into the fucking sun.”

Richie had been taking a sip from one last beer as Eddie was talking, and as a result does the first spit take of his adult life before laughing so hard he needs a few seconds to get the air back into his lungs.

Stan and Mike, however, look bewildered. “A _what_?” Mike asks.

“Right, we didn’t tell you,” Eddie says. “When It went after us…”

At around eleven, Stan and Mike are too tired to keep going. After all, they skipped out on an afternoon siesta to look at real estate and finances. Mike’s sober and awake enough he’ll have no problem getting home if he leaves _right now_ , and they all hug him good night. Stan promises to meet up with him again in the morning before he leaves, but for Richie and Eddie, it’ll be the last time they see him for at least weeks if not months.

They clean up—there’s little to salvage, so it’s quick work, and everyone’s ready to get some sleep by midnight. Or rather, almost ready.

Richie stops Eddie on the way to his room.

“Hey, so, when are you heading back to New York?” he asks. Trying to be casual, trying not to sound desperate. Probably failing. 

Eddie sighs and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Tomorrow morning, probably. I know I need to go back, be an adult about all this.”

“Right. Cool.” Richie rubs the back of his neck. “Like, stupid early or…” _Fuck fuck you sound so fucking needy it’s not going to be like that and you know it_

“You said you would be up at eight?” Eddie asks like Richie isn’t quietly panicking.

“Yeah,” Richie manages. 

Eddie says, “Then I’ll leave when you do.” And the tension Richie was carrying deflates. 

“Yeah?” Richie says, and he sounds fucking breathless. He tries to laugh it off, and that sounds even worse. Maybe it’s because he still looks at Eddie, whole and alive and healthy, and still sees what he’d look like with a giant claw speared through him and he’s really like that to stop, please, but it doesn’t. He still hears the same words shouted over and over at the arcade that day, written on bathroom stalls, whispered behind his back or screamed in his face.

Eddie shifts his weight. There’s a hint of a smile as he says, “Well, _yeah,_ Richie. I’m not going to disappear in the middle of the night.”

 _Promise?_ Richie wants to ask. _I love you_ , he wants to say. _I’ve been in love with you for thirty years and I’m more scared of losing you than I was of the fucking clown_.

“I really want to kiss you right now,” he says.

Eddie considers this, and takes a step forward. “So kiss me,” he says, voice completely level, like he isn’t close to panic.

Richie laughs. “You’re saying I don’t need to brush my teeth first? That my mouth isn’t gross because I’ve eaten something?”

Eddie shrugs. “Normally I would, and normally I don’t like kissing anyway. But I like it _a lot_ when it’s with you, so…” and Eddie, the bravest man Richie’s ever known, leans up, cups one hand around the back of Richie’s neck, and kisses him.

Richie closes his eyes and goes along for the ride, closes in when Ed’s hand goes from the nape of his neck to the space between his shoulder blades. _Eddie likes kissing him. Eddie likes kissing_ only _him._

When they part for air it won’t be forever. Richie has to keep telling himself that, or he’s going to fucking lose it. Eddie’s going through a stressful time of his own and Richie can’t afford to put any more pressure on him right now, or funnel it into freezing and bombing onstage again. 

_Breathe,_ he tells himself. _You have time. Eddie’s alive and wants to be with you and literally just kissed you. It’s going to be okay_. 

Eddie kisses him again, brief and chaste this time. “Night, Rich,” he tells him. “See you in the morning.”

 _See you in the morning._ “I’ll hold you to that,” Richie says without thinking, and immediately regrets it. _I’ll hold you to that? Seriously, Tozier?_

But Eddie grins at him and goes to his room, leaving Richie to try and sleep.

Initially he does. There’s no evil laughter as he tries to sleep, or even rustling of trees outside his room as he drifts off. No fucking red balloons floating above him and no Paul Bunyan right beside him.

It feels too viscerally real; the warmth of blood spattering across his face, _getting into his mouth_ as it pours, viscous as tar, from between Eddie’s lips. That scared, lost voice.

Richie jolts awake. Just a nightmare. Bev got them all the time after the Deadlights, and the seven of them are still alive, still here after killing It once and for all. They’re nightmares, not self-fulfilling prophecies. Stan didn’t kill himself three nights ago, and Eddie didn’t die a mile underground.

Unless they did and Eddie’s corpse is still trapped there and Richie’s gone insane with grief.

 _No, that’s fucking stupid. It’s fine. You’re fine. Eddie’s fine_. He’s just going to get back to sleep, because it’s still dark out and It doesn’t deserve the space in his head. Back to sleep, see Eddie again in a couple of hours.

Richie manages to lay back for all of ten seconds before deciding, _Nope_ , putting on his glasses, and pulling out his phone.

_Eds_

_Eddie spaghetti_

_1 2 3 wake up_

“Fucking asshole, he’s definitely going to get sick of you if you pull this shit,” he tells himself as he presses send.

A moment later his phone buzzes. _Incoming call: Eddie_. It’s probably the real deal. He accepts.

“Fuck’s sake, Rich. It’s five-thirty. Didn’t you make a joke about this last night?” Eddie sounds groggy but surprisingly coherent. And alive. And like himself.

Richie exhales. “Yeah. Sorry. Bad dream, can’t be too careful.”

Eddie grunts. “Yeah, understood. Think you can try to go back to sleep, though? ‘Cause _I’m_ gonna try to.”

“Yeah, sorry.” Richie tries to laugh, but nothing comes out.

“No, it’s fine. Just tired, is all. See you in a couple of hours?”

“Not if I see you first,” Richie says, and winces. _The fuck, Tozier_?

He still manages to elicit a chuckle from Eddie, who says, “Get some rest, Richie,” and hangs up.

And Richie is torn between actually trying to go back to sleep and giving up on the idea together. Thank Christ he’s actually tired enough that his body makes the decision for him and he wakes up again to the sound of his phone’s alarm going off and not, like, a clown’s face.

When his shit is ready and he’s ready to leave Eddie is in the lobby with his ( _fucking enormous, seriously, he’s not even going to move anything out of his house at this point_ ) suitcases and a large medicine bag. He’s freshly showed and shaved, in new clothes and with a freshly changed bandage. He smiles as soon as he sees Richie, who grins at him and waves before handing his key over at the front desk.

“Hey,” he says, and sits down across from him. “I’m sorry about waking you up early. I shouldn’t have freaked out like that.”

Eddie leans forward. “No, it’s fine. I imagine we’re all going to have nightmares about this at some point. I shouldn’t have given Bev shit about hers.”

There’s an awkward stretch of silence. Richie would like to take Eddie’s hand, but there are people possibly watching, and he still can’t do it. 

“Will you let me know how it goes?” he asks. “When you get back?”

“Yeah. Yes, of course. Let me know when you get home from the airport, too, yeah?” Eddie says, and starts to stand and grab for his suitcases. It’s more awkward, Richie realizes, because it’s they’re around people who don’t know them, couldn’t possibly understand what they’ve been through, and may or may not know who Richie is. He felt a whole hell of a lot braver on the Kissing Bridge, in the quiet of the hallway at night, even with the other Losers.

“Let me help you with that,” he says, reaching for one of Eddie’s suitcases.

Eddie’s eyes widen slightly, but then he says, “As if I’d turn down the chance to have you do manual labor,” and they take their time getting to his car. Neither says anything as they get Eddie’s suitcases in the trunk, and Eddie drops off his medicine bag and leans against the back of his car after shutting it closed. Then he looks at Richie like he’s headed for the fucking gallows, like he needs Richie to say something, anything, to take his mind off what he has to look for him.

They know how this has to go. They talked about this yesterday; Eddie has to go home and deal with his soon-to-be ex-wife and go back to his job and Richie has to fulfill a bunch of bullshit contractual obligations on the other side of the country and this wasn’t going to be easy for them. He knows this; he knows Eddie knows this.

 _I love you,_ he thinks. _You’re brave and funny and fucking gorgeous and I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything or anyone and I would do anything for you. I’ll wait as long as it takes for you._

“I love you,” he says. 

The silence that ensues probably doesn’t last long, but white noise erupts in the confines of Richie’s skull, becoming louder until it deafens him as he stands there, probably looking stupid as all fuck as Eddie stares, eyes as wide as Richie’s ever seen them and mouth open.

_I fucked up I fucked up I fucked up I fucked up oh God I ruined it_

He almost doesn’t register it, doesn’t hear it over his internal meltdown, Eddie clearing his throat and saying, “I love you, too.”

 _I love you, too_. Richie’s a fucking adolescent again, must be, because his heart _soars_ at the words. He’s been waiting so long…

And then Eddie covers his mouth, and a second later, a shocked laugh.

And that punctures the brief moment of safety Richie felt like…well. Like a balloon. 

“What’s so funny?” Richie asks, voice thick because he’s about two seconds away from crying. What’s _wrong_ with him?

Eddie looks down, brows furrowed, like he’s trying to piece it together himself. When he finally looks up, he says, “That was the first time in I don’t even remember how long,” he swallows down, “that I said it to someone and actually meant it.”

They both freeze at that. Richie wants to kiss him. He can’t. But he hugs Eddie close and secure, warms wrapped around him and cheek pressed into Eddie’s hair. Every time he thinks he’s going to be rejected, he’s wrong. He still can’t wrap his head around it, but fuck it, he’ll take it. 

Eddie eventually has to leave. It won’t be the last time Richie sees him. He watches Eddie drive off before checking his phone. He has time to make a pit stop before heading to the airport’s rent-a-car. He knows what he wants to do.

The hardware store is open, and there’s no line for him to purchase what is probably a cheap and dull pocket knife, not unlike the one he borrowed from his father as a kid, and the Kissing Bridge isn’t far out of the way.

The letters have faded, but Richie can fix that. He wants to embed the love that’s been there all this time, buried deep down but never truly gone, will never fade away. He carves deeper, meticulous, and sits back on his haunches, admiring his handiwork.

 _R+E._ Richie smiles before standing up, setting the knife down, and giving it one last look before heading to the car.

 _Fuck you, Derry_ , he thinks _. You couldn’t kill us or what we have, but we will always be a part of you_.


	2. I'm Selfish, I'm Obscene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie finishes the last leg of his tour on a very different note.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -I am so sorry that this took so long. I'd initially labored over an absolute behemoth of a second chapter and was struggling to work on and edit it when I figured it would be better for everyone if I made more manageable-sized chapters and posted more frequently. I promise it won't take as long to post the following chapters.  
> -I know very little about divorce, being a celebrity, or being a touring comedian, and despite my research they may be errors.

Steve is apoplectic as Richie leans against the wall, watching him with his arms folded. His dressing room must be pretty sound-proof if Steve’s comfortable carrying on at this volume. “How fucking _dare_ you to this to me!” he tells him. “You’ve been leaving me holding the bag for the past week, trying to save your ass while all you can do is tell me you want to ‘ _change up the material?_ ’”

“I told you. I want what I say to start reflecting who I am,” Richie tells him. He shouldn’t feel this calm. Coming out to his manager is different from coming out to his best friends, especially Eddie. But he’s resolved; he’s going to do this. He takes a deep breath and gets ready. He can’t quite believe that it gets easier every time, but he’s willing to take that chance.

“And what the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean? You want to tell everyone that you don’t date and you can be a real fucking prick sometimes?” Steve demands.

“I’m gay, Steve.” 

Steve freezes. Whatever answer he was expecting, it definitely wasn’t this. He gapes at Richie and opens and closes his mouth a couple of times before running his hands through his hair.

“Really?” he asks, finally. Not angry, not as far as Richie can tell, but completely bewildered.

“Yeah. Really.” His manager may be one of the few people he never thought would completely turn on him if he…well. If he _knew._ He still couldn’t bring himself to tell him after over ten years of being his client. And he can’t help but feel the slightest thrill in saying it.

Steve collects himself. “How long have you…?”

“My entire life. That’s kinda how it works,” Richie says. He knows he’s being snippy; he knows he’s being a little ruder than strictly necessary. At the same time, he feels like he’s fucking earned it, preparing for all the backlash and invasive questions.

“I mean, how long have you known? How long have you been in the closet?” Steve asks. He sounds exasperated, sure, but Richie thinks there’s a bit of sympathy there. Maybe. It’s not animosity, at least.

“Thirty years,” Richie tells him, and waits for it to continue sinking in.

Steve sighs and sits down. Richie waits. He’s better at waiting than people realize. Finally: “That’s a long time.”

Richie knows. He doesn’t tell him that even without the clear memory of the first time he realized it, of his first crush, of the first time he’d felt as though his own body was rooting against him, he’d known. And, in this tiny microcosm, coming out to the first non-Loser, even if it is someone he trusts, he feels powerful. His heart thuds fast as he waits for Steve to digest everything.

Steve speaks carefully. “Listen, I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t tell anyone and all that, but. You can’t just put your career on hold right now. We’re in a very precarious position. We had to refund so many goddamn tickets, Rich. After that stunt you pulled? And we need to know what we’re doing.” He looks nervous, like he knows what Richie is going to say next and is fucking dreading it. “So, you’re saying you want the world to know?”

Isn’t that the fucking million-dollar question? Richie’s been terrified his entire life of anyone knowing. He’s built everything around this casual dudebro _so-straight-you-guys_ -attitude and jokes about banging any woman he possibly can, about a million girlfriends when he’s had all of three or four strictly for show. He knows his life and reputation as Richie Tozier, the aggressively heterosexual relatable slouch, will end. And for the first time in his life, he’s okay with that. He fought and defeated an eldritch horror disguised as a psychotic clown. He can handle a shift in his career and fanbase. He can adapt. He can finally come out.

At some point.

“Yeah,” he says. “Eventually, I want to come out. Right now, though, I know we need to start small. I want fewer girlfriend jokes, and more of this,” he says, and reaches in his back pocket for some loose-leaf and hands it over. “Like I said, I want to start writing more of my own stuff.”

Steve looks over his notes and back at him. “Small dogs and small towns?” he says.

Richie shrugs. “Can’t be worse than the last show I did.”

Steve smiles briefly before taking a deep breath. “Listen, Richie. I _don’t_ want to force you to stay in the closet. But you have to know how much of a risk you’re taking, right?”

_Be brave. Be a Loser._

“Yeah, Steve. I know.”

Steve gestures for Richie to sit down. After a moment and a pair of raised eyebrows Richie does.

“Why’d you freak out that day?” Steve asks.

Richie was prepared for this; mentally rehearsed on the plane back to LA how to phrase it in a way that would not immediately get him sent to a psych ward. He takes a deep breath. “Are you familiar with repressed memories?”

Steve narrows his eyes. “How fucked up was your childhood, Rich?” he asks.

Richie says, “Enough. I don’t really want to get into it right now, but yeah. There was some stuff that was buried pretty deep. The call I got was from a childhood friend, who, uh. He wanted to remind me that a bunch of us, we were all friends as kids, that we’d agreed to have a reunion when we were forty. And a lot of shit that I’d kept buried all came back and, uh. It was a lot.”

Steve stares for a moment. “You’re a very strange man, Richie Tozier,” he says.

“You have no fucking idea,” Richie says.

Steve stares for another moment, considering, before sighing and getting up. “I know enough that you did actually scare me a few days ago. But you seem…okay now?”

“I’m not going to panic onstage again,” Richie says. He thinks of the phone in his pocket and the combination of solo and group texts sent over the last couple of days since Derry. Bev has filed a restraining order against her ex, and her divorce looks like it’s going to be hellish but she knows she has people batting for her, both the Losers and apparently friends who’ve wanted her to leave her husband for the past several years. She’s living with Ben and keeping her head down amidst reports about her, while Ben has stayed by her side. Bill managed to write the outline of an ending for his movie that was met with relative approval. Stan has just landed back in Atlanta and is planning his vacation with his wife, who he mentions was initially bewildered by his sudden trip to Derry but is now interested in meeting his childhood friends. Mike has applied for several different librarian positions ranging from public to university, and has spoken with a few different realtors. He could realistically have a new life for himself in three or four months, and doesn’t actually need to work for that entire time. He’s planning his first vacation since high school. 

That leaves Eddie, who’s been nothing but vague. He thanked Bev for the contact she left and said that he should be able to move into the Chelsea one-room within the next ten days. He privately asked Richie if he landed safely, and to _break both legs in Reno_. Richie wonders if the missus—well, soon to be ex-missus—is checking Eddie’s phone for evidence he cheated. It’s the sort of thing the first Mrs. Kaspbrak would’ve done.

So far they all remember each other; Richie was so deeply in denial that they wouldn’t forget that the idea that they could have and would have forgotten each other had they not killed It, makes Richie feel as though he’s standing at the precipice of a very tall building.

Richie’s set goes just fine; not his best, especially considering the scattering of empty seats in the crowd, but far from his worst. He squeezes in a couple of jokes about aging that get some genuine laughs and leaves out one or two about “his girlfriend.” Steve is hoping to do some sort of public redemption for him, a “return to form.” Richie lets him know he doesn’t want to go backwards. He considers this as he gets back to his dressing room, notices the glass and bottle of Basil Hayden left on his table, and pours himself two fingers.

It’s late. Probably too late in New York, but when Richie checks his phone and sees a missed call from Eddie, he immediately calls back.

“Everything okay?” Richie asks. 

Eddie gives a ragged little laugh. “Not really, no,” he says. “I’m living in a hotel, my firm is ‘ _unhappy_ ’ with the fact that I was stabbed in the face because it sends a ‘ _bad message_ ’ and my ex-wife outed me to everyone we know before I could get the chance to say it on my own terms.”

 _Bitch_. Fucking _bitch_. Richie takes a deep breath. “She’s a piece of shit,” he says, which is so much more diplomatic than what he actually wants to call her.

“Thing is, though, I get why she’s doing this. It looks really bad. Her husband who never seems to want to sleep with her and who’s always at the office or the gym goes on some sort of sabbatical out of nowhere without telling her why, doesn’t call for nearly two days and then comes back just to tell her the marriage isn’t working out. There’s no way to convince her I didn’t fuck anyone and honestly, I don’t know if I’d believe her if I was in her situation, either.” Eddie still sounds wrecked, and every part of Richie wants to cancel the rest of the tour, jump on a plane, and find his way to him. _Eddie’s in pain, Eddie needs help, I can’t protect him_. His grip tightens.

“She’s the one who attacked first,” Richie says. “She never gave you the chance to defend yourself. I was there.”

Eddie sighs. “And she was absolutely willing to not go through with the divorce if I begged her forgiveness and took everything back. I think she was expecting it to hold it over my head for the rest of her life as that time I got sexually confused and thought our marriage was over.”

“What the fuck,” Richie says softly. Then he manages not to add, _That sounds like some peak Sonia Kaspbrak gaslighting._ As if Eddie doesn’t know by now, as if he hadn’t probably thought the same thing.

Eddie goes on. “Then I told her I was serious and she was the one who’d talked about ending it first. And I told her,” Eddie stops. He takes a deep breath, and Richie imagines the exhale over the phone as warm air. 

He’s silent for long enough that Richie takes a sip from his bourbon, then another, and all he hears is Eddie’s breathing. “You okay, buddy?” he asks. _Did you buy another inhaler?_ He wants to ask, but he hears no tell-tale signals of Eddie taking a hit. He’d gotten accustomed to those sounds as a kid and they came rushing back days ago; he would recognize them now.

“Listen,” Eddie says. “I haven’t been—I wasn’t attracted to her. I didn’t know what it was like to _want_ to sleep with someone. I’d only been with two women,” he stops and adds, “Don’t laugh. Yeah. _Two_. And I didn’t want or like sex with either of them. Didn’t even like kissing them. Couldn’t stand that kind of intimacy. And I thought it was because of mom telling me, y’know, that sex is sinful and gross and will lead to me dying of the plague and maybe that’s part of it, I guess? And I’d never even kissed another man, so obviously I wasn’t gay, right?”

Richie says nothing. He doesn’t know how difficult this is for Eddie, or if Eddie will ever say this again. He isn’t sure Eddie’s waiting for an affirmative anyway.

“A look, a glance, that’s nothing. Occasionally wondering, that’s nothing, especially when you decide you’re disgusting just for wondering, right?”

“Yeah,” Richie hears himself say. 

“And I never understood what people were waiting for when people said shit about ‘ _waiting for marriage’_ like they’re holding off for something they want. I didn’t get that. Is sex really something to look _forward_ to?”

Eddie takes another deep breath. “But then there’s you. And I _want_ you. You give me something to look forward to.”

Richie doesn’t realize he gasps until the air fills his lungs. It’s not that he didn’t know, that Eddie didn’t tell him before, but he spent the better part of his adolescence wanting to hear Eddie say those words and hearing it now warms him from the inside, sets a dull throbbing within him. 

_I want you_.

Richie closes his eyes.

 _You have me. You have all of me_.

“Richie? Still there?” Eddie asks. 

“Yeah,” he says. His voice is hoarser than it was a minute ago. Eddie waits for a moment, as if expecting a rebuttal, or for Richie to tease him. He doesn’t. He won’t.

Eddie continues. “I’ve never actually wanted to be with a woman, never liked kissing women, never liked sleeping with women, but I really like kissing you. And I really fucking want to sleep with you. So what exactly does that make me?”

Richie still says nothing. He won’t put any words in Eddie’s mouth.

“That’s all I could think about and, I don’t know if you know this, but it’s a pretty fucking long drive from Derry to New York so I had a lot of time to think it over. And when I got to the house, I told her. I told her that if all the other reasons we don’t work as a couple weren’t enough, that I’d never been attracted to her, that I _couldn’t_ be attracted to her. She’d hit the nail on the head when she was throwing out accusations left and right in that I like men. I _only_ like men.” 

For a moment neither of them speaks. Eddie’s breath is ragged on the other end. Richie’s throat is tight. _I’m so fucking proud of you_ , he thinks. 

“So she understandably kicked me out. I’ve been asked to telework until my scar’s healed because apparently it’s ‘ _unsightly’_ so I at least got to get some of my stuff out while she was out today. We have our first joint meeting with a divorce attorney tomorrow.”

“I wish I was there with you,” Richie says finally.

“ _Fuck_. So do I.” Eddie gives another little laugh. “You lived in New York for a few years, right? Did you like it okay?”

Richie smiles. He knows Eddie won’t see it. “Yeah, I did. You’d probably hate LA. I mean, everyone is super health-conscious, so you’d fit right in, but—”

“Everyone’s into chakras and flip flops and ‘vibing’ or whatever it is the kids call it.” They both laugh. 

After a moment Eddie says, “Richie?”

“Yeah?”

“Why me?” 

_Why_ not _you? Why would I ever want anyone else?_ Richie’s throat closes up and he tries to take a deep breath. The depths of what he feels has a name, and it’s greater than anything he’s ever known. He wants to reach past the confines of distance, cross the states between them, and take Eddie into his arms. “Remember back in Derry, when you said that I was the only one who could really keep up with you, challenge you?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s true for me, too. We had the others, and they’re fucking awesome. But you were the only one who could really handle me. You were the only one who never seemed to get tired of me. Nothing ever got boring with you; time always flew by when we were together.”

“But I _am_ boring. Haven’t you joked about it?”

“That was me being an asshole, Eddie. I was only ever trying to keep your attention. And you couldn’t be boring if you tried.” _Tell me everything. Even if you think you’re annoying me, especially if you think no one’s listening. Talk to me._

He hears Eddie’s breath catch on the other line. After a moment Richie hears a sniff, and then, “Tell me about the tour. What’s going on with you in Reno?”

Richie laughs. _Fuck_. For a second there he could’ve sworn there were tears swimming in his eyes. “Not much to tell, man. I didn’t freeze up tonight. People are already forgetting about me.”

“ _I_ haven’t. I won’t,” Eddie says suddenly, voice fierce. For a moment Richie feels like they’re thirteen again, alone in his room. For a moment he feels very close to Eddie.

Then he hears a knock at his dressing room door.

“Hey! Everything alright? I need to talk to you for a couple minutes.”

At once the spell is broken; Richie starts and calls over his shoulder, “Just a minute!” as Eddie sounds like he’s fumbling.

“I should probably get some sleep, it’s late…” Eddie says, as though he’s just been caught up past his bedtime.

“I get it. Time zones are a bitch. Uh, can I talk to you tomorrow or, y’know, when we’re both free?” Richie asks, rubbing the back of his neck ( _why? No one’s here to see you be self-conscious. You’re a man alone with a bottle of bourbon_.)

And then he hears the smile in Eddie’s voice. “I’d really like that, Richie,” Eddie says. 

They say goodnight, they hang up, and Richie sighs. “What?” he calls through the door.

Steve enters, “Sorry, was I interrupting anything?” he asks, sounding brisk and not sorry at all.

“Yeah, actually. I was talking to my boyfriend,” Richie tells him.

Fuck. _Boyfriend._ He’s never used that phrase in his life, never thought he would. He has a _boyfriend_. A living, breathing, brave, neurotic, sexy, brilliant, foul-mouthed boyfriend who sees him from top to bottom, knows who he really is, and loves him anyway. How’d that even happen?

Steve doesn’t seem to notice Richie’s own internal misfiring. “Oh, sorry,” he says with a little more sincerity this time, and then, “Wait, _you_? You managed to get someone to date you? For real?”

Richie knocks back half of his glass and burps as way of response.

“Okay. Anyway, I just need to let you know I’ll be heading back to LA tomorrow morning and setting up a meeting. You, me, your agent, and your publicist. Once you get back, okay? If you need a little break after this, that’s fine, but I want to have a clear plan.”  
“Got it,” Richie says, wanting to just go back to the hotel, pour himself another finger of Basil, and get some rest. Preferably minus the clown nightmares, please.

“But one more thing, car’s on its way and will take you back to the hotel in just a sec, but,” Steve shifts. “Anything we need to know about this boyfriend of yours?”

“ _No_.” Richie sets his glass down. “He’s not in the industry and he doesn’t want to be. He’s got his own life and career and I don’t want him dragged into anything.” Fuck, if anything would chase Eddie away…

“Okay, okay,” Steve says immediately, holding his hands up. “Sorry. _Jesus_. Anyway, I was going to ask you to check twitter, maybe post a few tweets here and there, let people know you’re alive and pithy as ever. Social media counts, you know?”

 _Jesus fucking Christ_. “Fine.”

It’s when Steve heads out that Richie realizes how ungrateful he’s been through all this. Steve’s been more patient with him than most other people would, even if he is on his payroll, and has been looking out for him. He’s been taking care of everything Richie wouldn’t give a shit about while fighting a killer clown but adds up to his own credibility. He sighs, gets up, and trails out of the dressing room.

He catches a glimpse of Steve pulling out his phone before he calls out to him, and Steve glances up at him, eyebrows raised.

“Thank you,” Richie tells him. “For covering my ass.”

Steve looks like he wants to say something else before saying, “No problem. I’m great at my job. Have a good night, get some rest. See you in LA.”

…

That same night he’s back in his hotel and still fairly sober when he really thinks about what Eddie told him.

_I want you_

_You give me something to look forward to_

Richie doesn’t know if asking him what he’s thought about, what exactly he’s looking forward to, falls into the category of phone sex; if phone sex is also off-limits until the divorce is finalized. He’s never had it.

Does Eddie want to fuck him? Richie’s never been fucked. Not that he hasn’t been curious, but that it just seemed too intimidating, too intimate, too much of an admission of everything he’s kept suppressed all this time; somehow more so than taking a man’s cock in his mouth, which he _has_ done. But he’d let Eddie do it, at least give it a try, give himself over to Eddie. Even as the concept intimidates him, it’s something he knows he wants. There’s no one he’s ever trusted more with his own body, and they’ve only ever kissed. 

Richie wonders if Eddie would be willing to let Richie fuck _him_. Not that Richie’s had any experience being inside of another man, but he _can_ and _wants to_ _learn_ to fully explore Eddie’s body. Eddie would probably conduct an exhausting amount of research, test out the highest-rated lubes he can find and different condoms, and approach it all with his intoxicating combination of thoroughness and stubborn determination.

Richie has a leg up on him in some ways, though, doesn’t he? He has more than zero experience with men. He could teach Eddie a few things in his own right, couldn’t he? He could teach Eddie to handle a cock that isn’t his own.

He doesn’t quite get why Eddie wants him; has trouble fathoming anyone not interested in him for his career would be interested in him for anything else. He’s never exactly been an Adonis, and he certainly isn’t now. But Eddie…holy _shit_. The brief glimpse of him without a shirt is both baffling and instant spank-bank material.

 _Well, while we’re heading there anyway_ , Richie thinks as he reclines back in bed and gets his fly open, wonders if Eddie could be interested in blowing him, at some point. Earlier he would think no, never. Eddie would complain about the germs but

But he did say he likes kissing Richie, and kissing spreads a hell of a lot more germs than fellatio. He thinks. Probably. Eddie would know, or he’ll look it up. 

Richie can’t help but snicker as he pulls himself out before stiffening at the thought of Eddie gripping him tight in his place, eyes like coal as he leans down wraps his lips around him. Richie can’t quite picture it in full, but he manages Eddie’s hair, mussed and tussled from its gelled hold as Richie tugs at it as Eddie sinks his mouth down onto him. How fucking _perfect_ would he look?

Does Eddie know what he looks like? Does Eddie know the kind of effect he has? Has anyone ever _really_ touched him? Ever scraped their teeth, dragged their tongue over the cut V of his hips? How will he react once Richie sucks his cock? Will he gasp or moan? Bury his hands in Richie’s hair and desperately try to restrain himself from thrusting into his mouth? What noises will Richie coax out of him?

Richie speeds up, fully hard as he pictures, pictures Eddie, thighs parted wide, back arched, sweat collecting in the hollow of his collarbone and mouth open in a silent cry as Richie fills him completely; pictures him swearing and grinding back onto him

_Come splattered across his flat stomach_

“ _Fuck!_ ” Richie comes back down and glances down at his shirt, now dirty ( _who gives a shit; he’s got more and he can clean this one later_ ) and softened cock still in his hand.

First time as an adult he’s jerked off to Eddie. It won’t be the last time.

…..

“I had a panic attack during the meeting,” Eddie says.

Richie’s sitting on the hotel patio drinking bad coffee in his bathrobe. It’s one PM in Reno. Eddie sounds calm now, even weary, but Richie can’t gauge as well over the phone how he’s feeling. For his own part, Richie didn’t sleep all that badly. Moments of a feeling, a giggle in his ear waking him up, but he managed to sleep again. He expects to get used to it.

“When was this?” Richie asks.

“This morning, eleven. I kept telling myself that it’s going to be fine; we signed a pre-nup, we don’t have kids, I hadn’t fucked anyone else and she has nothing to show for any wrong-doing on my part and even if she did, New York is a no-fault state. But then they kept asking me about my sexuality like I figured it out a long time ago and intentionally dragged her into, I don’t know, being my beard for the past ten years. I don’t know how to undo all this. I really didn’t mean to hurt anyone or drag anyone into anything, but it doesn’t matter. I did it anyway.”

“No,” Richie finds himself saying. “No, it’s not like that.” _You lost so much; you were lost like the rest of us._

“Except that it is,” Eddie tells him. “I really hurt someone because I couldn’t come to terms with who I was or what my mom did to me.”

Richie clutches his coffee cup. “You’re not a bad person, Eddie.” _Even when you’re a pain in the ass you’re my favorite person on Earth_.

“Explain that to Myra telling me she wasted her best years on a closet case and any man I ever meet will leave me like she should’ve.” Eddie lets out a ragged laugh. Richie’s grip clenches on his phone; his internal body temperature flares up at the idea that _anyone_ would talk to Eddie like that…

“So, yeah. The guilt kind of spiraled out of control.” Eddie tries to lighten his tone, and it falls flat. “Something I probably would’ve used my inhaler for back in the day, but I don’t have one anymore so, panic attack.”

Richie tries to keep his breath steady. He wants to curse Eddie’s ex-wife into oblivion but he knows Eddie’s not going to appreciate it.

“Hey, are you okay hearing this?” Eddie asks.

“Yeah. Yeah.” Richie glances down at his now lukewarm coffee. “I just don’t have anything really helpful to impart, y’know?”

“I don’t know about that. Knowing you’re there and listening helps a lot.” Eddie pauses. “On that note, I talked to Bev.”

“Yeah?” Richie tries to smile. “How is she?” 

“She’s surviving,” Eddie says. “She’d love to hear from you when you get the chance, by the way. Told me to tell you that.”

“She’s a formidable woman,” Richie says absently. As a kid he’d been too up his own ass to understand just how much she’d been through but now he’s struck by how much it took for her to make it through her childhood in one piece, even subtracting Pennywise from the equation.

“She really is,” Eddie says. “Talking to her helps as well.” Eddie takes a deep breath over the phone. “I don’t know how much you know, and it’s not my place to talk about this, but her ex-husband is a disgusting, horrible fucking person. I know Myra wasn’t as bad as that, not even close, but Bev gets it, the whole, the whole thing.” 

He doesn’t elaborate, but Richie knows what he’s talking about. _I married a carbon copy of my abusive parent, and Bev knows all too well what that’s like._ Richie won’t spell it out for him. He shouldn’t. He doesn’t need to. 

Eddie sighs. “I don’t want to think about how lost I’d be without you guys, but I know I would be. I know I _was_.”

Richie thinks about this for the rest of the tour; he calls Bev and aches a little at the relief in her voice when she answers the phone.

“Are you doing okay?” he asks her. “Eddie said he talked to you but was kinda vague on how you were feeling.”

 _Fuck, he wanted me to hear it from her first_ , Richie realizes. _Wanted me to talk to her ASAP_.

“I’m okay,” Bev says. “It’s good talking to you and Eddie. He, uh, actually got me in contact with a divorce lawyer who specializes in…” Bev takes a breath, one that Richie couldn’t miss, “in domestic abuse cases. We’ve been helping each other out.”

“That’s good,” Richie says, and thinks of the bruises on her arms, of the nervous way she mentioned her husband and how fucking stupid he was to overlook it at first. “Bev, I’m sorry. I should’ve been there.” _I should’ve found a way to help you_.

“Oh, Richie, no,” Bev says immediately. “There’s nothing to apologize for. None of us remembered.”

“Still, though.” _You lost years over this man and I can’t abide that_.

“You’re here now. And that’s what matters to me.” Bev pauses, then says, “I don’t know if you’ve heard about me in the news or not,”—Richie has deliberately avoided it; he only wants to hear what Bev has to say directly—"but I’m suing him. He’d initially tried to press charges against _me_ for domestic violence. The night I left him he…” Bev exhales hard over the phone, a gust that sends a chill through Richie. He hopes he never meets this Tom Rogan guy, because he will beat the absolute shit out of him. “And I snapped. I couldn’t take it anymore, and I hit him in the face with one of our framed photos trying to get away from him. I had someplace I needed to be, and I had this rush, this feeling that I’d been there before, in that situation, and I needed to get out of it. So he tried to press charges and claim that it was an unprovoked attack and that I’d been having an affair. I hadn’t. I never cheated on him any point we were together right up until I left him. But I mean, I _do_ have someone now. And I’m glad I have him. As far as Tom’s concerned, it was a premeditated affair and he has grounds to claim adultery.”

Richie can’t speak. He’s never felt so useless in his life, not being able to do anything while his friend—his _friend_ , a woman who’s been through so much shit her entire life goes through something he’ll never have to endure. What the hell can he possibly offer her? An ill-timed joke?

“But I have more concrete, tangible evidence against him, so right now the big question everyone’s been asking is, _‘Why’d you stay with him if it was that bad? Why’d you put up with it? Why’d you let all this happen?’_ ” 

Richie hears the click of a lighter and a sharp inhale. “How do I even explain that?” Bev says. 

“Who the fuck even _asks_ that?” Richie says. 

“Plenty of people,” Bev says. “And there will be more when this whole thing goes to trial. But for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m alone.”

“You aren’t,” Richie tells her. “You’ve got all of us, especially Ben Handsome.” He hears her chuckle on the other end. “He’s treating you alright, I assume?” He has no doubt of it. It’s _Ben_ , who was and remains one of the most bafflingly kind and altruistic people he’s ever met.

“Yeah. Yeah, he’s really good to me,” Bev tells him. “And honestly? That’s new, too.”

“Bev…” he starts, and doesn’t know where to go from there. He’s never had a loving romantic relationship of his own. Not until now, anyway.

“Yeah, I know. But things are good with us. We’re going between the city and Huntington right now. He has a project he’s delayed for another month while we try to get at least some of this sorted out. He’s been there for me this entire process and I just, y’know, I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, because it always does, but it hasn’t. And I _know_ it won’t. Ben’s different from anyone I’ve ever been with. And that’s where I get a little tripped up. I’m waiting for all these behaviors that don’t come, and for him to get sick of me and leave, and he doesn’t. I don’t know how else to say it; he makes me happy. No one’s done that for me like he has.” Bev stops suddenly. And she laughs as though it’s the strangest fucking thing anyone’s ever heard. Richie doesn’t laugh, and _can’t_ laugh, but he just feels this immediate rush of affection for her. He _does_ love her, even if he’s not quite ready to retire the Molly Ringwald jokes quite yet.

“…So, you and Eddie?” Bev asks. Richie _hears_ the sudden smile. And he can’t help but return it, one no one sees and feels like a secret shared across a continent.

“Yeah. Me and Eddie,” he says. _Me and Eddie_. “Don’t know if that surprises you.”

Bev pauses on the other end. “I wasn’t expecting it, not really, but it makes sense. You two _make sense_ together, and you’ve always been so fixated on each other. But it didn’t start clicking that there was something else there until we all got back together. And when you told me what you saw in the Deadlights.”

The Deadlights. The _fucking_ Deadlights. Richie had wanted to, still wants to ask her how they affect her now, but he can’t ask like this. He can’t just pile on more shit for her, go, _Hey, so how are those horrible debilitating nightmares treating you now?_ He should wait until she doesn’t have to deal with the real-life terror that is her ex-husband. He deflects instead. “So you didn’t know I had a crush on him when we were kids and thirteen-year-old me would be _shocked_ at this turn of events?”

Bev laughs. “Richie, I didn’t know _Ben_ had a crush on _me_ when we were kids,” she says. “I’m not as perceptive as you think.”

Richie laughs in turn. “Jesus, you didn’t? I thought you’d known but were trying to find a way to let him down easy.”

“No, I’d had no idea. I mean, you probably know I was too hung up on Bill back then to notice anything else.” 

“Oh man, speaking of which, he’s probably going to be the first one of you guys I see,” Richie says. “I should probably ask my manager if I can arrange an east coast tour.”

“Ben and I would like that,” Bev says. “Mike would probably appreciate it, too. I know Eddie would,” she adds. “A visit from you would do him good.”

Richie wants to. It hasn’t even been a week and it’s already been rough; he wonders how the fuck he’s going to manage the distance, but Eddie thousands of miles away is always going to be better than no Eddie at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -I really wanted to do justice to Bev's and Eddie's situations. And while I'm obviously not a fan of Myra, I also wanted to communicate that her anger and her actions during the divorce are a reflection of a feeling of deep betrayal.  
> -For what it's worth, I don't think Richie's unattractive. It's the opposite, in fact; Bill Hader has his own unique charms that he brought to the table as Richie. I do think, though, that Richie doesn't recognize his own attractiveness and thinks people can only really be attracted to the idea of him for his fame, not who he really is or think he's actually handsome.


	3. Wait for Me, I'm Coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie has to deal with the business end of things; Eddie has to deal with divorce in New York.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...hello.   
> -I was once again writing a bloated behemoth of a chapter and thought I'd split it up and pare it down a little to make it neater. Richie will be seeing Eddie soon, I promise.  
> -From this chapter on there are going to be some time jumps. I know where I want the story to go but there are interim pieces that still need to be worked on.  
> -I'm neither a celebrity nor a touring comedian.  
> -Next chapter should be up in a few days because, well, I like many people suddenly have a lot more time on my hands.

He’s back in LA, and the meeting’s going about as well as he expected.

“What’s important here is that we’re smart about this change in material,” Steve says. “We can’t fire your ghostwriter right now; let’s work up to it.”

“Right, you mentioned something about Richie wanting more transparency, Steve?” Andrea, Richie’s agent, asks.

Steve sighs and looks over apologetically at Richie, who stares back.

The hair on the back of his neck pricks up. His face feels hot. “You told them without me?” he asks, and thinks of Eddie losing his right to come out as he wanted to in favor of having it all spilled out before he could speak. Richie can’t handle that. He can’t handle anything like that, and his hackles raise as he sees Steve’s eyes widen.

“Yeah; what exactly is he supposed to have told us?” Andrea says at the same time Steve says, “No, Richie. _Of course I didn’t_.”

Richie stares at Steve, then at Andrea and his publicist, Morgan. The latter two seem genuinely stumped for a moment, before he sees the recognition in Andrea’s eyes, which widen to saucers.

“Wait, holy shit. Are you…?”

Richie had been standing, refusing to mingle any longer than strictly necessary, but he just does not have it in him right now. His legs are trembling as he sits down. “Yeah. I’m, uh.” His throat closes up. Fuck knows why; these people aren’t his family, they’re on his payroll. He’s done this already. Someone else in the room already knows and is fine with it. At least in as far that he can make sure they’ll all profit off it, or still have their jobs later. “Gay,” he manages. “I’m fucking gay.”

He closes his eyes, hands clenched over the table in the conference room where Steve insisted on meeting him. For a moment it feels like the material of a bathroom stall, one where someone scribbled _Richie Tozier sucks flamer cock_ twenty-seven years ago and where it’s probably remained since.

Everyone’s silent for several agonizing moments. He waits for the jokes, for the insults, for even pity that seems almost worse, or disbelief that he would dare feel any sort of issue with it at his age and in 2016. 

Morgan speaks first. “Are there any bitter exes we need to worry about? Anyone who knows about this who might have a grudge against you?” she asks.

Richie slumps against his seat. Of _course_ people would ask these questions. He should’ve been prepared for them. “No exes, bitter or otherwise. And the only ones who know would’ve said something if they’d had a problem with me.”

“Current lovers?” Morgan continues, opening her Notebook.

Richie glares at her, who doesn’t notice his look. “Leave him out of it,” he snaps. “He’s not part of any of this.”

Morgan ignores his tone and keeps on, asking, “So he’s not a celebrity?”

“ _No_ ,” Richie and Steve say at the same time, and Richie raises his eyebrows at Steve, who shrugs helplessly.

“This is just the industry, Richie. You know that,” he says.

“Speaking of which,” Morgan adds, “Is this guy in the industry at all? Key grip? Intern? How old is he, exactly?”

Richie’s pulse thunders; his face flushes and he doesn’t know if it’s more from anger or shame. This woman who’s known him reasonably well for the past seven years is just…does she think he’s some power-hungry pervert taking advantage of whoever he can? A _predator_? 

“What the _fuck_?” he says finally.

Morgan realizes her mistake far too late; her eyes widen. “I’m sorry, Richie. I didn’t mean--” she starts, but Richie’s already gone.

He’s a good ten paces out in the hall before Steve sprints to catch up with him.

“I don’t wanna hear it,” Richie says.

“Yeah, I know you don’t,” Steve tells him. “And if you want to fire her, fine, but she did help keep you out of the press when you fucked up your own career, and she’s asking questions everyone’s going to ask anyway.”

“That Richie Tozier likes cock and that means he’s a gross scumbag?” Richie says, and thank fucking Christ he keeps his voice down to barely above a whisper. God, he’s not ready for this. Why did he think he was ready? 

“No! No, that’s not what—”

“It’s not? It sure as hell sounds that way.” But even now his anger’s beginning to dissipate; his shoulders sag and he just feels so goddamn tired. 

Steve hesitates before placing a stiff hand on Richie’s shoulder. 

“Listen, Richie. I get that this has been rough for you. I’m not going to act like I completely get how you feel or anything. I’m just here to do the best job I can for you, and it is my job to let you know that there’s more we need to talk about.”

Richie glances at the door, back at Steve, and sighs.

 _I have to be an adult about this. One who still has a career_.

He notices Morgan tense as he reenters, obviously preparing for him to fire her on the spot.

“He’s not in any way involved in the industry. He’s my age. And he has the right to privacy. Even after we’ve decided how I come out, it is completely up to him to decide if he wants to be at all involved in my public life,” Richie tells her. _He didn’t get to choose to come out in New York, and I’ll be damned if I ever do anything like that to him._

She nods wordlessly.

Everyone waits until Richie sits back down.

“So…” Steve glances around the room and tries to get the ball rolling again. “The tour finished on a fairly positive note, considering. People are already seeing your episode as a hiccup rather than anything serious.” _Your episode_ being what Steve calls Richie choking up and openly forgetting all his material. “And according to Morgan here there were a few positive tweets in regards to some of the new material you snuck in the last week of performances, so if you’re willing to start writing again, we can start incorporating it into your standup.”

“We have a few options,” Andrea adds. “We can get you gigs at the Laugh Factory within a couple of weeks. They always liked you there.”

Richie considers this. And then, because apparently he doesn’t give a shit about making life difficult for the people who work for him, he asks, “How soon can you get me doing a New York circuit?”

Andrea and Steve both look at each other, clearly bewildered, before turning back to Richie. “Shouldn’t be too difficult,” Andrea says first. “It would be better if you had pre-written material first, and a few sets here. Keep it up, keep rebuilding your credibility, and we’ll make it happen as soon as we can, won’t we?” she asks Steve, who nods.

“Yeah, Rich. We can manage that.”

….

Richie’s sitting at his coffee table that doubles as a desk, coffee on one side, notes on the other, laptop in the middle and thinking about how pissed off his ghostwriter is to be phased out of a job Richie in equal parts finds too easy and an insurmountable feat. He couldn’t be more grateful for his phone ringing—it’s not actively seeking excuses not to write if someone called _him_.

“Hey, is this an okay time?” Eddie asks. 

Richie wishes he could make a show out of gesturing towards the expanse of…no one…in his condo or check his nonexistent watch for the places he doesn’t need to be today. He probably won’t bother to put on pants unless he orders food and wants to show some decorum when greeting the delivery guy. He can’t, though, so he says, “Funny you mentioned that. I was just on my way to my anal bleaching appointment.”

“Fantastic, so you can put me on speakerphone ‘til you get there,” Eddie says. Then, more quietly, “I just really needed to talk to you.”

Richie could not give less of a shit about his career at this second. They text just about every day but talking on the phone isn’t a daily occurrence, and Eddie rarely prefaces them with anything that sounds urgent.

“What’s up?” Richie says, trying to sound calm, as though anything that sounds even remotely ominous isn’t making his heart race and his palms sweat, his throat dry and every coherent thought being, _What did I do to fuck it up this time?_

“I just feel really shitty and I don’t know what to do about it and I don’t want to bother Bev when her divorce is worse and I know I’m an asshole for complaining to you about this but I was freaking out and I figure you might as well know what you’re getting yourself into.” His words get progressively faster, voice higher and Richie can imagine Eddie gesticulating wildly, almost shaking with tightly coiled nerves.

Richie’s genuinely stumped. _What am I getting into that I’m not already prepared for? Hell, that I don’t already_ want? He should say something reassuring, but he’s not good at that. Distracting Eddie by annoying him, though? He perfected that over thirty years ago. “You’re pregnant,” he says, and hopes to God it might at least garner a surprised laugh, an annoyed huff.

“No! I…” Eddie stops, and for a moment Richie hears nothing, is completely tuned out before he hears wheezing on the other end. “Oh, God _damnit_ , Richie.”

“Are we to introduce a new life into the Kaspbrak household, Edjamen?” Richie continues, reaching for and then dismissing his coffee. He’s on a roll. He can both infuriate and amuse Eddie to no end; it’s one of the few areas in his life in which he’s confident anymore.

Eddie laughs on the other end. “Oh my God, fuck you,” he says, and wheezes again. Richie reminds himself—Eddie doesn’t have asthma, never did. Is he at work? No, must be at home. He can’t imagine Eddie feeling at ease enough at his white-collar Wall Street job to joke around with his on-the-down-low boyfriend. He’s making Eddie laugh when he’d been panicking; that’s a good sign, right? “I fucking blame you if I ever call myself that in a meeting.”

“Put it on your business cards,” Richie says, settling back. “It’ll be like that scene from _American Psycho_.”

“Honestly, work is the least of my concerns right now. Better than having to deal with the fact that I’m running away from a marriage that should never have happened. And that’s being put in writing.”

Richie huffs. “You didn’t run away. You drove back to New York to deal with her head-on. You took the high road as far as I’m concerned.”

“Yeah, well, I _am_ the one who’s leaving _and_ the one who’s technically at fault. You need grounds to get divorced in New York,” Eddie says. “We settled on constructive abandonment.”

“Right,” Richie says, making a mental note to look up _constructive abandonment_ later. “And you signed a pre-nup? Was that your idea or hers?”

“It was her parents’s idea. She comes from a _lot_ of money, and I don’t, so they wanted to make sure that I wasn’t marrying her for it.”

“Cold.”

Richie imagines Eddie shrugging on the other line. “I’m not complaining. The lawyer fees are bad enough without having to worry about alimony.”

“I thought you had a cushy job, Mr. Actuary,” Richie says.

“Oooh, you learned the technical term for it, well done,” Eddie says. “Yeah, I make good money. And I’m also going through an expensive divorce in an expensive city. And I feel like the world’s biggest scumbag. I wasted years of my life _and hers_ and I’m getting all high and mighty about how I never cheated on her when the entire divorce proceedings there’s an incredible man I can’t stop thinking about and who I plan on fucking the moment I’m not longer married.”

Richie’s mouth goes dry. He still hasn’t gotten used to hearing Eddie talk like this; they tend to avoid it. A bit too tempting to go from even mentioning what’s going on between them to Richie impulsively purchasing a plane ticket and arriving at Eddie’s doorstep when he’s made it clear he isn’t ready. Eddie has thought about fucking him. Eddie is actively planning on fucking him. Eddie actively wants Richie to be the first ( _only, even? How? How is this possible?_ ) man he’s ever been with and Richie’s brain short-circuits every time he’s presented with this information. But that’s not the point of Eddie’s call. 

_Get it together, Trashmouth,_ Richie tells himself.

“I don’t think it’s that simple,” Richie tells him. “I mean, you don’t have a problem with Bev dating Ben before _her_ divorce is over, right? And they’re _definitely_ having sex. Probably nonstop.”

“Of course I don’t!” Eddie says. “Her case is different. Myra didn’t do a fraction of the shit to me that…that _asshole_ did to Bev. He deserves to see how much better off she is without him and with someone who actually deserves her.”

Richie has a million thoughts lined up, including, _Why don’t you think you deserve that too?_ And, _I’m sorry but your ex-wife sounds like a bitch and just because she didn’t beat you doesn’t mean she wasn’t bad for you_. And, of course, _What do I do to help you?_

Then Eddie speaks again. “ _Fuck_. I’m sorry, Rich.”

And once again Richie is struck with a million thoughts, and none of them good. 

_I’m sorry, but I think we should stop talking for a while_

_I’m sorry, but I don’t think this is going to work_

_I’m sorry, but I don’t think you’re a good influence on me_

“I’m sorry. I should probably be talking about this with a therapist or something,” Eddie says. “I know we can’t talk to a therapist about _everything_ that fucked us up, not a fucking chance. But pretty sure each of us have enough problems Pennywise didn’t directly cause.”

And maybe Eddie has a point. Richie’s nightmares don’t typically take the form of Bowers and his gang, but he knows they helped shape him into the terrified, closeted man he is today. 

“Hey, if you think it’ll help,” Richie says. “It’s more than making dick jokes in comedy clubs.”

“You’re really going to insult your life’s work like that?” Eddie demands. And then, after a moment, “Richie…thanks. I know I talk your ear off but I kind of always feel better after talking to you. Always did. You were my best friend first, you know?”

“Yeah, I do.” Eddie had always been his favorite; much as he wouldn’t have

What helps more than anything is to hear that he’s not the problem; _they_ aren’t a problem. No second thoughts, no buyer’s remorse.

He thinks of the Kissing Bridge, what they said then.

 _We’ve got time_.

……

His new material at the Laugh Factory goes over well enough, with not a single joke about a fake girlfriend (he does, however, have to compromise with a joke about an ex-girlfriend, but it’s a concession he can make, especially when he does actually have a couple of those.) Over the course of the next three weeks he’s built back enough credibility that Steve’s proposal for Richie to do a circuit through New York and New Jersey is approved by the agency, and he’s booked for a two-week run the following month. Richie knows realistically that he can fly out to New York at the drop of a hat if he chooses; he makes his own hours. And yet part of him thinks he needs to give Eddie his space, regardless of what Richie actually wants. And Richie wants so much, more than Eddie can give him right now. In time, though? They can make this work. He knows they can. 

Richie compulsively checks the Losers group chat; Bill’s no longer needed on set; rewrites are done and he’s in Florida with Mike helping him choose a house and after that the two of them will be driving to LA—with a few pit-stops along the way, of course. This is a mini vacation for both of them.

Richie asks him how Audra feels about this, and Bill says the two of them are _taking a break_. Richie doesn’t ask him to elaborate. At this rate Stan will be the only Loser still married, who, by the way, has been spamming the group chat with vacation snapshots from Buenos Aires. Richie grins at the countless poorly-taken selfies of him and a petite blonde woman visiting the Palermo and the Jardín Botánico. He finds out from Bev first that Tom is in custody for violating his restraining order. Bev is, thankfully, unharmed, and it further vindicates her both in the eyes of the court and the eyes of the public. Ben sends pictures of his newest plans, of him and Bev on a sailboat, of the beach at Montauk. Richie plans to tell them that he’ll visit, but first he wants to talk to Eddie.

“Hey, so, things good on your end?” he asks.

“Yeah; yeah. Pretty good,” Eddie says. He’s probably at work, probably bogged down with requisite forms or whatever the hell his job entails. “Still living in Chelsea, still have my job, started going to therapy. How about you? How was your show?”

“Not terrible. My ghostwriter’s being phased out which means I get to write more of my own material, but then there’s the matter of making what I write work with what he writes for me.”

“It’s your show and your career. Can’t you tell him to let you have creative control?”

“We’re planning long-term,” Richie says. “That’s the ultimate goal. I’ve sent him my stuff and he’s tried to adjust his take as well, but it’s kind of an uphill battle.” He doesn’t want to talk about his material or his ghostwriter, though. “You said you were going to therapy? What’s that like?”

“Helpful,” Eddie tells him. “Surprisingly helpful. Obviously I haven’t told him everything, and therapy in New York is overpriced, just like everything else in New York. But it’s a worthwhile investment, at least for me.”

Richie sees his chance and takes a deep breath. “Well, if it’s that expensive, when I visit next month I’ll pay for dinner. We can even get dessert.” _Please be okay with this_ , he thinks.

He hears Eddie’s breath catch. Richie’s heart thuds like he’s never been aware of it before. He almost prompts Eddie, asks him to please say something before Eddie speaks.

“I’ll get to see you?” he asks. “Like, in person?”

Richie laughs. “Yeah. I’m doing a mini-tour in New York and New Jersey. It’ll be just a two-week stint, but it’ll give me time to see you. And Bev and Ben, but mostly you.”

He hears Eddie laugh softly on the other line, and then, “Really?”

“Yeah.” Richie’s fucking beaming on the other line. _I love you, I love you, I love you_

“I can’t fucking wait. I didn’t know if it would be a bad idea to visit for the weekend, or for one of us to take time off work, or what your schedule’s even like, but I’ve wanted to see you ever since I left Derry.” Eddie’s voice gets progressively faster and louder as he continues; fucking music to Richie’s ears.

“Yeah, me too,” Richie tells him. “I want to see you so fucking bad but you have, like, a normal person job and a regular commute and hours and shit and the divorce going on and I feel like I’d just be some kind of nuisance, you know?” 

“You wouldn’t be. You won’t be. Have I not made it clear enough? No matter how many jokes you make about fucking my mom or dick jokes or any of that shit, I can’t get enough of you. Never could.”

Richie’s chest feels full; he almost can’t breathe with the sudden intensity of the love he’s feeling right now and he doesn’t know how the hell to communicate it. He’s in completely new territory here, unsure and terrified and charging ahead and yet he responds the only way he knows how. “You want me to test that?” he asks.

Eddie snickers on the other end. “I’m sure you’ll try,” he says.

….

Life goes on. Richie counts the days until New York.

Bev and Ben are delighted to hear he’s going to visit and Richie books tickets for them and for Eddie to one of his shows. They’re both coy about any pressing news and promise to tell him everything when he’s there.

Mike and Bill visit Atlanta, apparently. Stan and Patty are back from vacation, and the married couple take the first to the tourist attractions they rarely or ever saw in the nearly twenty years they’ve both lived in the area. Mike spams their group chat with pictures of whale sharks and penguins at the Georgia Aquarium and of the Botanical Gardens. Bill spams them with whatever Mike didn’t share. Stan tells Richie privately that both Bill and Mike are in the midst of writing books; Mike’s writing a historical account of Derry and Bill’s writing another novel probably in the vein of his other horror pulp.

Richie wants to ask. He holds his tongue. Instead he asks Bill, _u writing a thing with a less shitty ending?_

 _It’s gonna be about the seven of us so if u don’t want to be killed off in my book u should probably be nicer to me,_ Bill replies.

_Or I die in real life?_

_And why have we not hung out yet? You’re the only other loser on the west coast dude wtf_

Soon after that he gets a text back, _yeah I am actually sorry about that_. _Between the filming and the separation and having to go on location for some of the reshoots and your tour I just didn’t get the chance_

Followed by, _but mike will be staying in la with me for a little while and we got tickets to your gig at the laugh factory before you go to New York_

_WTF bill just ask I would’ve covered the tickets if you said you were coming by_

_Well if it makes you feel better I didn’t have to pay for them; they found out who I was and said me and my plus one could get in for free_

_u bastard_

…

This is the first time any Loser has knowingly seen Richie perform. Richie’s wondered what they thought of his standup before they remembered him; he’s aware that Eddie didn’t like it, but he doesn’t know, he wants to know if Eddie felt even a hint of recognition at seeing him or hearing his name. But that has to wait another two weeks. Now he sees Mike and Bill seated at a table, beers in front of them and matching encouraging smiles on their faces as Richie starts.

“So, quick show of hands, how many of you are from small towns?” A few hands go up, Mike’s and Bill’s among them. “Ah, glad to see you managed to escape.” There’s laughter, that’s good. A couple of the times he’s gone up recently, putting forth some of his own material for the first time in over a decade, he’s thrown up beforehand. This is _him_ they’re seeing, the real him, and if they don’t like it, then he’s fucked. So far the reception hasn’t been _bad_ , and more often than not has been positive, but oh God, he _actually gets stage fright_. He takes a deep breath and focuses on Mike and Bill. 

“There are high schools with more people than the town where I grew up, which is pretty fucking apt because no matter what age you were, it feels like high school. Like, ‘what is this weird fucking cult, my life is going to suck the entire duration I’m here.’” Bill and Mike laugh at that, and Richie feels a warmth build in his chest that spreads, and he finds himself unable to contain his smile. “Some of you might be going, ‘Well, fuck you, tons of people stay in small towns and think they’re great.’ _Yeah_ , because they were the jocks who peaked there.’”

He meets people for autographs after the show and is polite but perfunctory before meeting Mike and Bill, who both hug him ( _man, Mike gives great hugs_ ) before they settle down over another round.

“Wanna take something for the ‘gram?” Richie says, earning identical groans from Bill and Mike, who lean in regardless for a group selfie. He ignores the fact that they both look better than he does and captions it, _new boyband cover_.

People are immediately stunned and delighted to find that horror legend William Denbrough is on friendly terms with him. Richie has a couple of chuckles at Bill’s expense; Richie’s seen his movies and is resolved to eventually read his books, but it’s still Bill. Still the boy who told increasingly convoluted campfire stories. People ask about the handsome man in the middle of them, including Steve, who is far from subtle when he mentions at a meeting, “Your friend’s a good-looking guy.”

Richie smirks and settles back with his arms across his chest. “Mike? Yeah, he’s pretty hot. And he’s not my boyfriend.”

He doesn’t let Steve fumble with an excuse. “No, you’re curious. It’s fine. Jury’s out on if he’s single, though,” he adds, just to watch Steve go wide-eyed.

Steve immediately changed the subject. “So, to prepare for your New York tour, we have your plane tickets, your travel itinerary, your booked hotels, and your hours and locations. Any time you don’t spend onstage or doing meet-and-greets is up to you, but you _will_ be held under more scrutiny than usual, so…”

“…Please don’t fuck this up?” Richie finishes.

Steve gives a look that suggests that yes, that’s exactly what he means. “You’re not completely out of the woods, Richie. I’m honestly kind of surprised your brainfreeze didn’t become a meme.”

No kidding. The other Losers would probably send him screenshots. “It won’t happen again,” he says. Is he nervous about his career? A little. For a long time it was the only thing he had. But his main concern for New York is how he’ll manage to keep his hands to himself around Eddie; he hasn’t jerked off this much since college and part of him wonders if that will subside when he can see Eddie face to face or whether it’ll get worse. 

Thank God Steve can’t read his mind as he makes sure Richie is completely aware of where he needs to go and when, before Richie’s home and getting ready, thinking, _I’m coming, Eddie. Eventually in more ways than one._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can find me at ooihcnoiwlerh.tumblr.com


	4. I Try and Say Goodbye and I Choke, Try to Walk Away and I Stumble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...So. Yeah. I am really, really sorry. I could blame the hiatus on the fact that I was taking on other writing projects that had a stricter time deadline, but really it was severe writer's block.

Last full day he’s in LA he hangs out with Bill and Mike; Mike will traveling up the coast by the time Richie gets back. Bill already introduced Mike to the wonders of LA taco trucks without Richie (a fact Richie has bemoaned with his most colorful vocabulary) so instead they hang out at Bill’s, order food, and drink beer and tequila from the home bar ( _Bill kept the house, imagine that_.) Mike and Richie take turns riffing on Bill’s movie adaptations and Mike and Bill take turns riffing on some of Richie’s worst jokes.

“God, the one about taking a Viagra that lasted five hours? Straight up something out of your fourteen-year-old lexicon,” Mike says. “Surely you have some veto power over your ghost-writer. Have you ever taken Viagra in your life?”

Richie settles back with his mezcal. “You got me. I’m not a sixty-year-old man and the reason I had trouble getting it up for women had nothing to do with Little Richard, except in how Little Richard feels about women.”

Bill chokes on his beer. “Oh, God _damnit_ , Rich,” he manages, laughing regardless. “You fucking waited until I was taking a drink to call it that.”

“Oh, like you don’t call yours _Big Bill_ ,” Richie tells him, which gets all three of them going again.

They calm down as the night goes on; Richie may have the liver of a stereotypical stand-up comedian but Bill and Mike do not, and between this, that they’re all forty, and that Richie has to get on a cross-country flight tomorrow morning, they manage not to overdo it.

So Mike is fairly sober when he asks, “So, will this be the first time you’ve seen Eddie since Derry?”

Richie almost freezes. It’s the cruelest thing; he knows he’s in love with Eddie, he came out to six people he trusts and cares about deeply, and he is fine with them knowing about the two of them, and yet some part of him still panics at the suggestion of their ( _almost? Soon to be? Long-distance?)_ relationship.

Mike catches on, of course, and starts to apologize immediately, “Sorry, I shouldn’t’ve assumed, I just could’ve sworn—” as Bill glances, confused, between the two of them.

“No, no, it’s fine. Nothing to be sorry about,” Richie says, awkwardly stepping in, trying to phrase it as maturely as he can. “Yeah, so…you’re right. I haven’t seen Eddie since then. He’s got the divorce to deal with, he wants to take it slow until all that’s over, he’s got a life and I don’t want to get in the way of it. We’re,” he sighs and rubs his hands along the tops of his jeans. “We’re dealing with it,” he tells them. 

Bill furrows his brows, then his eyes widen. “Wait, _you and Eddie_?” he looks over at Mike, “Were we supposed to know that? No one told me if we were.”

Richie glances between the two, then bursts out laughing at Mike’s incredulous stare. “ _Fuck_. Okay, no, we didn’t make a huge announcement or anything. It’s just…not a secret, either. I mean, it _is_ , but not among the seven of us.” _I’m not out yet, Eddie is but not entirely by his own choice, it’s a long story._

“So does everyone else know?” Bill asks.

“I feel like everyone else was able to deduce from the constant flirting,” Mike says.

A look of recognition passes over Bill’s features, fluttering like the familiar twitch in his brow that hasn’t changed no matter how much they have. “So _that’s_ what that was,” he says, sounding mystified. “It was yours and Eddie’s version of pulling on pigtails.”

Richie never saw it that way, but he supposes Bill’s right. For the longest time he could think of no better way to keep Eddie’s attention than to annoy the hell out of him. In hindsight it probably would never have worked with anyone else. In any case, “Yeah, I think so. Ben and Bev know, and Stan probably does because he seems to know everything, but he and I haven’t talked about it. At this rate he’ll be the only Loser I don’t actually get to talk to in person.”

“About that,” Mike says, “We were talking with him back in Atlanta and he said he’d be interested in having another get-together sometime during the holidays, if everyone’s available and depending on where it is, since we don’t have to worry about a killer clown this time.”

“And his wife’s on board with it?” Richie asks. They are, after all, a strange and sometimes off-putting assortment of friends for a reason, and she’s lucky enough to be married to the most normal of them.

“As it so happens, we both made an excellent impression on Patty Uris,” Bill says. “Stan meant it when he said she’s interested in meeting the whole crew. She’s just kind of amazed Stan didn’t mention that he was childhood friends with a best-selling novelist, a famous architect, a famous fashion designer, and a stand-up comedian.”

“Well, nice of her not to call me a second-rate Chris D’elia,” Richie says, and when both Mike and Bill start cracking up, adds, “Oh, fuck you both.” Still, warmth rises in his chest and he feels a lightness he can’t attribute to the alcohol. Being friends with them as an adult is as easy as it’s ever been, even with the decades of baggage and trauma. This summer wasn’t a fluke, wasn’t just them banding together out of necessity. They can and they _want to_ rebuild their friendships after the years of separation between them, and Richie can hardly wait.

He’s starting to rebuild his life the way he wants it, he’s starting to understand for the first time in years what it’s like to feel truly happy.

And so he doesn’t understand why that night the nightmares come in succession, the worst they’ve ever been, and leave him sweating and sobbing alone in his bedroom the hours before he needs to head to the airport

…

Richie has someone to greet him at the airport to drive him to his hotel with the assurances that “they’ll send someone” to pick him up tomorrow night for his show and tells him he’s “free to explore and have fun tonight.”

His hotel is downright swanky; he rarely has to stay in shitty motels anymore, like he did through most of his twenties when he was lucky if the money he made covered gas and a room for the night. He considers this as he grabs a shower in a bathroom that’s almost nicer than his; if he was just going to stay in and hit up the hotel bar by himself he might not bother, but he’s not going to see Eddie for the first time in over six weeks looking and smelling like…well, like a stale, washed-up comedian.

He finds clean clothes that likely won’t get him kicked out of an NYC bar and decides not to shave, in case the slight stubble he sported in Derry was something Eddie likes.

He doesn’t know how to be presentable beyond that, or sexy. He’s heard that’s his appeal, that he’s likable _because_ he isn’t handsome, which is among the more backhanded compliments he’s ever heard.

 _I guess it works for Eddie_ , he thinks, and decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

They settled on a cocktail bar in Greenwich village, because it’s close to both Richie’s current hotel and Bev’s studio, where Bev is working on a new show. 

Richie sees Ben and Bev sitting at a table with four glasses of water and it appears both the patience to wait until everyone arrives to order alcohol and the sense to make sure the four of them don’t get dehydrated. One of the chairs has a black jacket draped across the back of it; a surefire sign that _Eddie was here._

Ben sees Richie first and beams, touching Bev on the shoulder to let her know Richie’s here and then both of them stand to give him a hug.

When Richie first saw them back in August, it hadn’t occurred to him that either of them could be unhappy; they were both gorgeous, successful, healthy. He hadn’t noticed the cracks in both their facades until he sees them now and the differences feel almost charged. They both seem so much more at ease than they had before that he has to keep himself from doing a double take. Ben doesn’t seem awkward, Bev doesn’t seem tense or nervous. Eddie…well, Richie hasn’t seen that doe-eyed, kissable face since Derry. He doesn’t have an ‘after’ to compare.

He holds it together as he hugs them both but can’t find it in him to sit down. “It’s so good to see you guys, even if it’s fucking infuriating that you both look even better than last time,” he tells them. “Speaking of which, have you seen Eddie?” he asks, peering over them, feeling both a bit like an asshole and a bit like he’s thirteen again.

He’s lucky they both seem to find this more amusing than anything. “He’s here, he just went to the bathroom,” Bev tells him.

Richie wants to sit down as he says, “Alright, cool. Cool, cool, cool.” He tries not to make an idiot out of himself, antsy and peering around the bar, even as he fails.

And then he sees him.

Eddie isn’t particularly dressed up; he’s in a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, baring his tanned forearms and making Richie feel like a Victorian gentleman about to come in his pants at the sight of exposed ankle. He can’t help but lose focus on Ben and Bev, and surely they must understand as Richie sees Eddie’s profile and a small, pink and white scar on his left cheek that yes, makes him look like a stone cold badass as far as Richie’s concerned

_And it’s so fucking different_

Because it’s an Eddie who knows what’s to transpire, who knows he wants him and that he’s wanted in turn, it’s an Eddie who knows who he is and…

And…

 _Fuck,_ he looks so good. How is this man a perpetual walking wet dream? 

Eddie smiles, his laugh lines and dimples crinkling when he turns and sees Richie, and Richie falters. 

He’s never wanted to kiss someone so badly in his life. He wants to pull Eddie into his arms and kiss him right here and right now, and he can’t. He can’t imagine what he looks like now; a dumb prop staring gaping-mouthed as Eddie draws nearer, fighting every instinct to run to him and press his mouth to Eddie’s and near-trembling with need.

“Hey, Trashmouth,” Eddie tells him as he walks up to their table.

Richie can’t think of anything pithy or playfully insulting to say in response. He just pulls Eddie to him and hugs him as fiercely as he can. He tries to pour every _I love you I missed you I’m sorry_ into the embrace and wants to bury his face in Eddie’s shoulder as Eddie hugs him back, almost sways with him. 

“Hey, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie manages, wanting to hold on, wanting to touch the scar on Eddie’s cheek, to kiss it, and squeezing his eyes shut as if that could tamper down on just how badly he _want_ s. Stupidly, he feels the heat of tears building behind his eyelids and takes a deep breath.

Richie pulls away first. He has to. It’s that or cling to Eddie with everything he has, for as long as he can, and that is just out of the question. He looks at Eddie and smiles, tentatively, thinking, _I really wish I could kiss you right now_.

And then, _I’m sorry that I can’t. I’m not ready. I’m not as brave as you are_.

But Eddie demands no explanation, just smiles back, more understanding than Richie deserves. They haven’t had the full conversation yet, but Eddie knows—on some level, all of them know he’s not out yet to anyone outside of now ten-person circle keeping his secret.

For a moment a too-familiar voice trails in, _your dirty little secret_. Richie ignores it and takes in that Eddie is alive, Eddie is healthy, _Eddie is happy to see him_.

“Missed you,” Richie tells him, because anything more would be telling too much, would be spilling everything.

Eddie still smiles, big sad eyes taking up his face as he says, “Missed you too, man,” and all at once they manage to compose themselves, sit down and seem like this wasn’t a fucking seismic event.

Their waitress is quick to come by and take their drink orders. Richie orders Woodford Reserve, neat, and settles in to listen as Bev mentions that her fashion line is undergoing a sort of “rebranding” now that her ex has been removed from the company and he tries to pretend to understand hers and Ben’s jobs. 

Bev does add something Richie can decipher, though. “Also, managed to get Eddie to donate his ‘suburban dad’ polos and start dressing like a successful New Yorker.”

“Mostly with clothes from her menswear line,” Eddie adds, picking up his own drink, something with gin, and trying to hide an awkward smile. 

Bev looks over at Richie with a hopeful grin and unspoken, _Doesn’t he look good, Richie?_ Beside her, Ben notices this and watches her with a fond smile of his own.

And Richie noticed. Of _course_ he noticed that Eddie’s in clothes that properly fit his body. He also looks like he got a haircut, looks healthy and, fuck it. He looks _sexy_. Like he could never be hard up for a date in Manhattan. Probably has people coming up to him all the time now that he’s seemingly unattached.

Richie can’t help but glance at the bare skin on Eddie’s finger where his wedding band used to be. He tries not to think about how easy it would be to reach out and hold his hand, to touch Eddie’s knee under the table. 

He refrains; he sets both hands on the table and just enjoys the closeness. To a stranger, it must look like they’re on a double date, and the thought both thrills and utterly terrifies him. Several people recognize him and ask to take a selfie with him, and ask if he’s “doing better” and he wonders how they see him, sitting across from what is very obviously a couple and beside a handsome, age-appropriate man. And then he thinks that spending his entire professional career joking about how constantly horny he is for any amount of attention from women and somehow feels worse.

Until Eddie takes him out of himself by mentioning the results of his allergy tests.

“So, are you allergic to high-fructose corn syrup and anything that comes out of a 7-11 microwave?” Richie asks.

“Okay, so those are legitimately bad for you and probably unsafe to eat, but no.” Eddie tells him, and his face is drawn in a way that feels so deeply familiar, feels as old as they are; the discomfort to accompany a nervous smile that takes Richie back to when they were children and Eddie had to explain away his mother’s rules for him. “Uh, yeah. Turns out I don’t have any food allergies. And. That.” Eddie clears his throat and takes a sip of water. “That my anxiety and stress levels were what was causing a lot of…digestive problems.” He glances back over at Richie, brow furrowed and eyes wide.

And Richie’s vision narrows down as he recognizes. It’s the look that says, _I am trusting you with this vulnerable, embarrassing thing and I am asking you not to mock me for it like so many other people would_. He remembers it so well; it’s how he learned to tease Eddie the right amount, to goof with him enough to get him annoyed, but never too far. Never enough to make Eddie feel as weak as his mother did.

“I’d kind of assumed that it was a side-effect of living in New York,” Richie says.

Eddie relaxes only slightly, but it’s enough. Richie remembers Eddie mentioning the Park Slope townhouse he and his ex-wife used to share, how it was meant to be calmer and safer than Manhattan but how relieved Eddie had been to take his name off the lease and relinquish ownership to that place. How he’d stayed away from home as often as he could and hadn’t acknowledged why for so long.

Richie hadn’t known what to tell him then, and, if he’s being honest with himself, he still doesn’t. The immediate thought is, _I want to build a home with you,_ but Richie can’t bring himself say it, not yet. 

Instead, he changes the subject to tomorrow night, where Ben, Bev, and Eddie will be watching him do standup at the Comedy Cellar, reservations and drink covers managed in advance by Richie Tozier himself.

“So, uh, you’ll be seeing some stuff that’s new and some stuff that I started working on right after we killed It,” Richie tells them. “So you’ll be my guinea pigs in my ongoing attempts to write my own shit.”

“I’m sure we’re going to like it,” Ben assures him.

“You made me laugh more in the first five minutes of meeting you again than you did when someone else was writing for you,” Bev adds.

Richie turns to Eddie, who shrugs and grins. “I’m glad you’re dropping your ghostwriter, man. If that guy couldn’t find a way to be as funny as you were at thirteen, he doesn’t deserve to be on your payroll.” And warmth spreads through Richie’s chest, and not for the first time this evening. It’s a feeling he realizes he’s always associated with Eddie.

Ben offers to pay for the drinks tonight and it’s a given Richie will cover everyone tomorrow. Bev and Eddie, Richie argues, are going through their respective expensive Manhattan divorces after all. 

“Hey, you guys want to stop by the apartment?” Bev asks. “I’ve been renting a place near my studio. I didn’t know if you wanted to go out to eat, or order in…”

The idea of having the privacy to discuss whatever the hell they want without anyone listening in is too tempting. “If you’re willing to have me over, I promise not to start any fires.”

Bev’s apartment looks nice; should be, given her income. But if she’s not living full-time with Ben and she’s effectively keeping most of her assets from her marriage, shouldn’t she…? Richie doesn’t know how to ask.

Bev seems to understand before he can open his mouth. “I don’t want to see that place again,” she tells him. “Too many bad memories. I’d rather just put it on the market and be done with it. All I want is a place where I can function while I need to be in Manhattan.”

Ben and Eddie look like they’ve heard her say this, and the thought, “ _She didn’t think I cared or had the time to hear this before_ ” is immediately overshadowed by, “ _We’re all still talking. This isn’t a fluke. We’re still friends_.” After the shitstorm they’ve all been through, he’s still floored every time he realizes this.

And Richie wants to say something, is torn between something meaningful or something juvenile, and is saved by Bev going, “Alright, guys, so what are we feeling? Sushi? Indian?”

Richie, who has consumed mostly just caffeine until an hour and a half ago, says, “Anything that moves slower than I do.”

And Eddie says, “Vegan, then?”

Let it never be said Eddie can’t give out as good as Richie does, and Richie doesn’t bother stifling his reaction. “Oh, you little turd,” he says after everyone gets a good laugh, himself included. _Eds gets off on a good one!_

Bev ends up ordering a variety of dishes from a Mediterranean place she swears by, and politely ignores everyone’s attempts to reimburse her in favor of cracking open a bottle of wine for everyone and having Ben set the table. The main area is largely its own living space; the kitchen opens up into the living room with only a round table to separate the two, and it’s easy to settle down with the three of them. Feels like a family dinner, except far more companionable. As easy as it was to hang out with Mike and Bill just yesterday, which Richie is happy to talk about. He relays the possibility of a get-together over the winter, to which everyone seems amenable. They throw around the idea of meeting in Chicago, and Ben suggests setting up a poll for everyone after dinner.

Eddie still eats carefully, which he justifies saying, “It’s just not a good idea to immediately reintroduce everything at once” which is probably sound science, and Richie isn’t going to push it.

Any case, Richie thinks about how they’re almost in private. No one is here except him and Eddie and two people who know about them and support them. So what’s stopping Richie from resting his arm against the back of Eddie’s chair? Eddie’s sitting to the left of him; Richie can still use his fork with his dominant hand. 

The part of his brain still telling him that he’s wrong and bad for what he wants and feels every time he even thinks of Eddie. He’d like to say that he’s shut it up for good, even as he hasn’t.

But he’s trying to.

It takes several minutes of debating, of wondering if Eddie even _wants_ Richie to put his arm around him, before Richie slowly extends his arm, as if to warn everyone of what’s to come, before resting it on the back of Eddie’s chair with what he hopes is a neutral expression. 

_Oh, you filthy pervert. Your parents must be ashamed of you_

And then it’s done; Richie has, hopefully as far as anyone else is concerned, casually shown some affection without any internal struggle.

He feels about as smooth as a cottage-cheese martini.

But then Eddie turns to him and smiles, briefly, before turning back and continuing his vehement criticism of poor gym etiquette, and every voice that isn’t at the table with him fades.

Ben mentions his dog, Charlie, who he adopted less than a week after leaving Derry and who’s under the care of a very trustworthy house sitter until he heads home in a couple of days, with Bev accompanying him for the weekend. Richie’s seen the pictures of the three of them; they’re infuriatingly wholesome.

When everyone’s finished, and finished cleaning up, they all make for the living area when Bev pauses and glances over at Ben.

“Hey, would you guys mind if Ben and I looked over something in my office? It’ll be a few minutes.” Her tone is too casual, her face clearly working not to smile.

“We promise to behave,” Richie says, and looks over at Eddie as Ben and Bev share a knowing look and disappear into a room down the hall.

It’s all of two seconds before he and Eddie both crack up.

“Are they trying to give us some _alone time?_ ” Eddie reaches for the arm of Bev’s couch and leans back, facing Richie with a warm smile.

“What do you think the chances are they’re going to ‘check up on us?’” Richie replies, before dismissing the thought and taking two steps forward to take Eddie’s face in his hands and kiss him.

Eddie immediately kisses him back, cupping the back of Richie’s head with one hand as the other finds its way to the small of Richie’s back to press them closer together. His body is warm and his mouth is soft and he’s firm and solid against him.

Richie brings one hand to the space between Eddie’s shoulder blades, to where he’d seen Pennywise spear him through—except he _hadn’t_ , and here’s the proof. The skin feels whole and unmarred through his shirt, and Eddie’s kissing him like no one’s ever kissed him before.

Eddie pulls back to bury his face against Richie’s neck but Richie can still hear him murmur, “It’s almost done, Richie. A month, maybe six more weeks and it’ll be over.”

Richie holds onto him. “Can’t wait,” he tells him. “If you let me, I’ll book a plane over the minute you’re free.”

Eddie snorts and chuckles. “That actually sounds pretty perfect,” he says, and pulls back enough to look Richie in the eye. “Got tested, by the way. Completely clean. I’d assumed I would be, but it never hurts to get checked.”

Richie looks him over. “Would it make you feel better if _I_ got tested?” he asks. 

Eddie gives a slight nod, looking almost embarrassed. “I mean, yeah? If we’re going to be, you know…”

Richie knows. Oh, fucking hell, he knows. “I can do that,” he says immediately. “Whatever you want me to do for when the time comes.” 

Eddie smiles, and Richie finally goes in to kiss his scar. The tissue is raised and rough and it’s a part of Eddie now. He loves it as much as he loves everything else.

 _You’re so fucking brave and I’m so fucking proud of you_ , he thinks as Eddie pulls him into another kiss. He holds Richie to him, one hand fisted in Richie’s shirt as the other tugs at his hair.

Richie weirdly likes how Eddie manhandles him; it’s not quite what he first expected but he welcomes it all the same, putty in Eddie’s hands. He wonders, vaguely, if Eddie turns out to be like this in bed, and his body has a knee-jerk response to a million flashes of Eddie bossing him around, whether guiding his dick into Richie’ mouth or spearing himself on Richie’s cock or eventually _fucking_ him, and Richie groans as he finds himself filling out in his jeans, against Eddie’s stomach.

They both immediately pull back, Richie flushed and hot as he repeats over and over again, “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“No, no, I get it,” Eddie interrupts. He’s panting and red-faced as well. “I’m in the same boat.” 

“That, uh,” Richie catches his breath. “That doesn’t really make it easier,” he says. 

Eddie makes a frustrated sound. “But you know, I…” he gestures wordlessly at the couch, and they both sit down. For a moment they sit in flustered silence.

Eddie starts. “I know you’re not out yet,” he says.

Richie tries to apologize, and Eddie shakes his head. “It’s fine. I know you have your career to worry about. And I don’t…” he takes a deep breath, and reaches out to rub Richie’s arm before pulling back.

“I don’t want,” he starts again, “I don’t want you to go through what I did. It sucks. It’s fucking humiliating. And I get that it’s different for you, with the whole,” he waves an arm, “celebrity. Thing.”

Richie snickers. “Yeah. That is how I describe it.”

Eddie just looks at him with those big dark eyes and Richie sighs. 

“So, I want to come out. But my _team_ , I guess, we decided the best way to do it would be after I’ve weeded out some of the more…narrow-minded members of my fanbase, had me doing some of the stuff I want to do and fewer jokes about-”

“Finding out your girlfriend’s bisexual and using it as ammo to convince her to have a threesome for your birthday, got it.”

Richie winces. “Yeah. I knew that joke was bad when I read it, and I performed it anyway. You sure about settling on me?”

He’s almost kidding, but Eddie grabs Richie’s arm. His face is set; there’s a glint in his eye.

“Yeah,” Eddie tells him. “I’m completely sure that I want to be with you and that I’m not ‘settling.’” 

And Richie believes him. Should be preposterous; he’d been ready to spend his life alone and unwanted, but here Eddie is, making plans and showing every indication of wanting _him_.

When he seems satisfied that Richie understands this, Eddie sits back. “So, you want to wait until you’ve started setting different expectations of your comedy. That sounds…really smart, honestly.”

“Is that your professional opinion as a risk analyst?” Richie asks, making sure to keep the emphasis on the first two syllables. 

Eddie tries and fails not to laugh. “I’ll show you an anal-list,” he says, crooked little smile and dimples in full force as he leans forward and kisses Richie once again.

Ben and Bev step out just moments later, only to offer flustered apologies. For a split-second Richie and Eddie freeze, before they look back at each other.

Then Richie thinks about how this had once been a fantasy/nightmare scenario and now is just another thing he’s realizing he can deal with. Hell, he can have fun with it. Eddie seems calm after the initial jump, and is now looking at Richie as if to say, ‘ _I’m not scared, but let me know if you are_.’

“ _Oh, Edward, ravish me_ ,” he says in his best Gloria Swanson voice, and manages to get everyone laughing.

…..

“So I’ve started going gray,” Richie tells a reasonably packed house. “Not up here,” he adds, gesturing to his scalp, “but here,” he says, passing a hand over his stubble.

“And I think that’s worse. Not just because I can’t dye my facial hair, but because if I had a couple of streaks of grey around my temples, it’d be like, ‘Oh, he has character. He’s distinguished. No longer does he look like a fucking slob; he looks like some sort of eccentric college professor.’” People in the crowd laugh, and Richie smiles. “Okay, that’s stretching it. Maybe ‘some sort of community college adjunct who’s constantly hungover.’ Better?”

He spots Eddie, Ben, and Bev at a table and they’re laughing just like everyone else. And that helps.

“No one’s gonna look at the gray in my way-past-five-o’clock shadow, especially in conjunction with the rest of me, and think, ‘distinguished!’ They’re going to think, ‘Am I looking at the human equivalent of an expired gas station Slim Jim?’ Shit, I might actually have to start shaving every day! God forbid I get gray body hair. No one’s gonna think my graying pubes ‘add character.’”

The rest of his set goes well, especially when he throws in a couple of well-timed

_Voices_

imitations of New Yorkers who were all deeply unimpressed by him. And to think his ghostwriter didn’t like him doing accents and impressions, stating that they gave him a “ _trying too hard vibe_.” 

_Well, vibe on_ this, _asshole_ , he thinks, as does his encore. It’s a simple story about being fourteen years old and knowing nothing about fixing bicycles and still insisting he could improve his best friend’s bike. The solution? Pretty much destroy it. And then pool together whatever money he and his other friends had to get it properly fixed before his best friend’s mother found out. The story culminates with a fairly uncharitable impression of his father going, ‘ _The hell are you doing with a bike with no seat?_ ’

“Goodnight, everyone! You’ve been amazing!” he says, stepping off and agreeing to multiple selfies with members of the audience before making his way to Eddie, Bev, and Ben.

They’ve set aside for him a pint of beer and finger of bourbon and they pat him on the back.

“That was good, Richie,” Ben tells him. “And that was all you?”

“Kind of,” Richie tells them. “It’s a combination of shit that I’ve workshopped back in LA and some that I’ve never actually performed before. My agent _and_ my manager are both shitting themselves in fear.” 

“They shouldn’t.” Eddie says, nodding towards the stage. “What you’re doing is working.”

“What, rebranding?” Richie asks, reaching for his bourbon. “I think they’re trying to spin it as me getting more mature, and that’s a fucking lie.”

“You were going to have to retire the jokes about having embarrassing sex with women who come to your shows eventually, Richie,” Bev tells him. 

“I had another few years left of those,” Richie says. “I was good at selling the whole ‘middle-aged schlub desperately trying to screw women in their twenties to feel young again’ thing.”

Ignoring the collective wince his friends share, he adds, “But yeah. I told them I wasn’t going to do any more jokes about having girlfriends anymore. And if New York goes well, I can fire my ghostwriter.”

There’s more riding on it; he has several meetings lined up over the next two weeks; a potential guest role on _Broad City_ , a movie deal. The goal, Steve tells him, is to show his merit as he’s taking “a new direction” with his standup, which is still mostly apolitical self-deprecation, just with less misogyny and pretending to be straight. But that’s all industry talk, and he’d rather discuss literally anything else.

They sit around and watch the other acts, a couple of whom are legitimately hilarious, until it’s late for those working actual human hours and everyone but Richie needs to call it a night. Bev will be back in Manhattan next week, Ben towards the end of Richie’s tour. 

“How about you, Eds? Think you’ll be around?” Richie asks.

Eddie offers a flippant little shrug before patting Richie on the back. “You have my number,” he says, as they leave the club and file out onto the sidewalk.

One brief hug from each of them, and Richie’s alone, with nowhere to go except his hotel or maybe another bar, and no responsibilities until tomorrow night.

He grabs a slice that he finishes eating by the time he reaches the hotel, jerks off for the second night in a row, has a finger of the scotch Comedy Cellar left him as a gift, and tries to sleep.

He wakes up in a cold sweat at five AM.

He’s seen Eddie in person two days in a row, and somehow the nightmares are more frequent than ever.

….

The routine is, no matter how badly he sleeps, he finds something to do during the day, whether writing or skyping his team or meeting with directors and producers over potential projects. The role he was up for in _Broad City_ already went to Andy Samberg, so that’s out, but Judd Apatow is casting a new movie. He offers him the role of the main character’s stoner roommate. Principal filming is set for November in Brooklyn, where he’d be needed for two weeks. He accepts. Most nights he performs, and the reception is generally decent. A couple of people stop him and mention that they “didn’t know he could do impressions” which he thinks he can reasonably interpret as praise.

At Steve’s behest, he scans social media for mention of his recent standup, which generally skews positive but for a few people who bemoan Richie Tozier’s “indoctrination into PC culture.”

“How the fuck are my jokes about body hair and food poisoning PC?” Richie asks Steve. 

“Because you aren’t turning them into jokes about trying to fuck your girlfriend’s sister,” Steve answers. “Listen, it’s fine. You knew going in that you were going to lose a few fans along the way. This is just part of it. It’s what you signed up for, Richie, and it could be a lot worse.”

“Yeah.” Richie lifts his glasses to rub the heels of his palms against his closed eyes. “Yeah, I know.”

……

Eddie comes to see another of his shows at the Gotham Comedy Club, Richie’s last show in Manhattan before he heads for the boroughs and the wilds of New Jersey, and Richie makes sure to throw in a joke about small designer dog breeds that has Eddie laughing harder than anyone else.

Above everything else, above his own career, Richie’s invested in making sure to spend time with Eddie. He needs every reminder that Eddie’s doing well for himself, going to therapy and going out and _not_ dead from being skewered by an evil clown. He doesn’t tell Eddie about his nightmares, not when everything’s going so well between them and he doesn’t want to ruin this reprieve he’s been given. 

Only difficult part of being with Eddie—well, one of the three difficult parts of being with Eddie—is that Eddie has reluctantly stuck to his guns about not having sex of any kind until his divorce is finalized. In theory, easy enough. They’re both forty-year-old men with busy lives and an emotional connection that’s just as powerful as any physical attraction. In practice? Richie has to restrain himself at all times from letting any errant kiss go too deep and he jerks off like he’s in high school again. God, he thought he was bad _before_ he came to New York. It both helps and really, really doesn’t knowing that Eddie has admitted it’s a struggle for him, too.

“So I’m going to be in the area for a couple of weeks in November,” Richie tells him when his set is over. They’re sitting at a small table with a bourbon and a gin with club soda, respectively.

Eddie’s eyes widen just a fraction. “So, uh. That’s awesome, man.” Richie watches him do the mental math as he adds, “My divorce should be finalized by then.”

Richie grins as he salutes him with his drink. “Here’s to hoping,” he says, ignoring that this is the second difficult thing about being with Eddie—Eddie’s adult life is firmly based in Manhattan. He’s spent over fifteen years climbing the corporate ladder, fighting tooth and nail for the job he has now that Richie still doesn’t understand and that takes so much of Eddie’s time and energy. He can’t pack up and leave, and right now, neither can Richie. There’s too much pressure to revamp and “rebrand” to be allowed to take a few weeks off. Any time he spends, especially in New York, has to serve some kind of purpose and neither of them can compromise.

Eddie grins back and raises his own drink. “To divorce,” he says.

“Cheers to that,” Richie adds, before taking a sip.

“So,” Eddie says, “What’s this movie about?”

“It’s a pretty standard Judd Apatow romcom,” Richie tells him. “Mediocre guy bags hot girl, they break up, they get back together. And no,” he adds, seeing Eddie start to open his mouth, “I’m not the mediocre guy who gets the girl. I’m his roommate.”

Eddie furrows his brow. “You don’t think you can pull off playing a romantic lead?” he asks.

Richie bursts out laughing. “Fuck no. No one does.”

Eddie starts to lean forward before catching himself, and sits, frozen for several seconds before saying, “I think you’re selling yourself short, man.”

And Richie thinks of problem number three, which is all his own fault. He knows he’s playing it safe, playing a long game to help his career from imploding, but really, that’s not all that’s stopping him from holding Eddie’s hand in front of a crowded comedy club, or telling the world that Richie Tozier is gay as fuck. There’s still that shame, that feeling of being thirteen years old and humiliated, exposed, fucking _terrified_ all the time. It’s taken nearly everything he has to let the Losers know, let Eddie know, to even _think_ about a future in which he isn’t riddled with self-loathing, because he just isn’t there yet.

But Eddie has some idea of what that’s like, even if his experiences aren’t the same. And Eddie’s worth it. He’s so fucking worth it, all the fear and shame and years of loneliness if it got Richie here with him.

“Tell that to my agent,” Richie says. _I love you_.

“Oh, absolutely. Give me her number and I’ll tell her that Richie Tozier’s the next Bradley Cooper and she should market him as such.”

Richie snickers. “Then you like my chances of making People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive.”

“Sure. Hawaiian Shirt edition.”

It’s as close to flirting as Richie is willing to risk, and he savors every moment.

He also savors the kiss Eddie pulls him into, hidden away in the alley before they part ways for the night.

 _We can make this work_ , he wants to say _. I’ll do anything to stay with you._

……

He has one day left in New York, and he spends part of it with Bev, having coffee in her studio after she sent her assistant home for the day. And it’s pleasant chatter. Ben is very sorry he can’t make it back to Manhattan to say goodbye because of a work emergency but he was very happy to see Richie and would love to skype with him when he gets the chance. Richie will be back in six weeks to film a movie and for no other reason that he’s comfortable giving her.

They talk about the possibility of a Loser’s reunion in late December; after debating who should host, Ben offered up his house as a meeting place, and the tentative dates are the twenty-second through the twenty-seventh.

Richie hasn’t talked to her about his nightmares, hasn’t mentioned the Deadlights to her once. He should. His nightmares aren’t going away, and he needs to tell someone. And Bev is _right here_ and she would understand better than anyone.

Instead he jokes about inane shit he doesn’t even care about until Bev stops him.

“So,” Bev tilts her head, giving Richie a considering look, “With this whole ‘rebranding your image’ thing you’re doing…”

Richie groans and throws in an exaggerated roll of his neck. “Aw, c’mon, Bev. I’m just not me without my glasses.”

Bev holds up a hand. “No, no. You’re right. And I’m not trying to give you a makeover; you did grow into your looks after all. I was just wondering if you’d be willing to let me design a suit for your next red-carpet event. I want to see you in a decent suit just once, and I may have to make it myself.”

Richie would laugh if he didn’t feel an odd tug in his chest. “Bev, I’m not a celebrity people make clothes for.”

Bev shrugs, her face breaking into a radiant smile. “Well, you are now. Next time you have to wear a suit out in public, let me know first. And on that note, I want you to try on a jacket. I think it will really work with your style and frame—” she starts to get up.

He needs to ask her.

“Uh, Bev?”

Bev stops. She can clearly hear the immediate shift in his voice. “Everything okay, Richie?”

Richie clears his throat. “Uh, yeah. I was just wondering. Did the nightmares stop for you once we killed It?”

Bev sits back down. “Is everything okay?” she asks him.

Richie tries to laugh. “I think so?” he says. “I mean, they don’t happen every night. But they happen often enough, especially when I’m here.”

Bev reaches out and takes Richie’s free hand, the one not gripping the handle of his coffee cup. “Do you want to tell me about it?” she asks. Her hand is soft, and her hold gentle.

Richie wasn’t sure how he was ever going to phrase it, but out the words come. “I see him _die_ , Bev. It fucking _guts_ him, right after he’s saved me. I have to watch him bleed out every time, and every time I have to leave him behind.” _You guys force me to leave him behind_ , he doesn’t say. There’s no point.

Bev doesn’t flinch. “I thought that might be…you kind of hinted that you’d seen something like that. Remember? When we were in the quarry? And I was worried about you, but I didn’t think it was my place to ask.”

“It’s getting worse,” Richie tells her. “I _see_ Eddie, and I _know_ he’s alive, but then when I’m asleep my brain just keeps bombarding me with this reminder that in some other universe he isn’t. He’s rotting under the Neilbolt house and I’ll never see him again.” He looks at her face and the crease between her brow deepening as she hears all this, and needs some noise to fill the void in the seconds of silence that follow. “How did you deal with it?”

Bev looks him dead in the eye and says, “I _didn’t._ I couldn’t sleep more than four hours a night. I chain-smoked. I let Tom talk me out of going to therapy over and over again because I wanted to pretend that my life was really fine and normal. I didn’t understand what I was dreaming about and why, and I was too scared to ask for help.”

And there’s the rub. He’d be annoyed if this wasn’t Bev. And if some part of him didn’t know that she has a point. “Do you still get those nightmares?” he asks her.

Bev shrugs one shoulder. “A couple of times since we killed It. I’m not sure if they’ll ever go away completely. But,” and she takes a deep breath, speaking slowly, as if sounding out the thoughts as they form, “I think it’s possible that, by acknowledging them, confronting them, they can get easier to deal with.

“Did you tell Eddie about any of this?” she asks. She obviously knows the answer.

Richie sighs. “I’m not…good with this whole thing.” _Feeling things. Admitting to feeling things. Being sincere without trying to make a joke out of it. Being vulnerable. Take your goddamn pick._

“I know,” Bev says. “And I’ll remind you as often as I have to that there are people who love and care about you. And you can talk to any of us, anytime.”

“I know,” Richie manages. He cracks a smile. “So, you said something about how I’m your new muse and I’d look amazing in your jackets?”

Bev grins and pats his hand. “Wait right here,” she says, and a couple of minutes later she’s fitting him with a leather jacket and fussing over him with measuring fabric in one hand and pad with paper in the other.

“I had to guess, but a couple of alterations and I think it’d be perfect for you,” Bev tells him. “Ready for when you come back in a few weeks.”

Richie turns to her. “Are you saying this is for me?”

Bev wrinkles her nose. “Your jacket back in Derry got soaked with graywater. It’s time, Richie. You need another one.”

After a moment, because Richie knows Bev’s given him permission to leave the subject behind, because he knows he should, he asks, “You think I should go to therapy?”

Bev hesitates. “I don’t know. I just know that what I did for the longest time doesn’t work. And that just because It’s dead doesn’t mean we don’t all have a lot to work through.” She keeps her eyes downcast as she writes down the last measurement, and sets down her pad, pen, and tape measure before facing Richie, and she suddenly smiles again. “Eddie’s gonna love this on you,” she says.

Richie stands, confused and dumb as the mannequins Bev has in the corner of her studio. “Are you trying to get me _laid_ in this jacket, Beverly?” he asks finally, and she just laughs in response.

…..

He spends the last couple of hours in New York with Eddie. It’s just an innocuous dinner sitting at the bar tops in his hotel’s restaurant. 

“So have your fans been enjoying some of your new stuff?” Eddie asks, spearing a piece of broccoli rabe.

“More of them like it than don’t,” Richie tells him. “But you do realize of course that you now have to identify yourself as a fan of my work.”

“Too late,” Eddie says, a crooked little smile on his face. “I mentioned seeing you at Gotham to one of my coworkers and he’s never going to let me live it down.”

Eddie hasn’t mentioned work in the time that Richie has spent here, and Richie’s put off asking for a while, but he wants to know. He wants to know if the place where Eddie’s spending the vast majority of his time actually gives a shit about him. “Does your work know…?” he starts.

“No! No, of course not!” Eddie starts, alarmed. “It’s just the seven of us who…” and then it sinks in that that’s not the question Richie was asking, and Eddie exhales hard. 

“Uh. Yeah,” he says. “It was kind of unavoidable. I’m friends on facebook with a few of my coworkers, and right after Myra and I had that fight she posted this public rant about what a terrible, deceitful closet case I was and, of course, tagged me in it. That ended up biting her in the ass in terms of potential emotional distress and loss of employment, but the damage was done and by the time I was in the office again everyone knew.”

Richie doesn’t call Myra any of the various, scathing names he’d like to. Instead, he asks, “Are they…okay with it?”

Eddie snorts and looks down, his food around with his fork. “Not really,” he says. “Wall Street is still very…1980s. Reagan-esque. My firm can’t fire me, I’ve worked too hard to be too valuable to just get rid of, and I haven’t been demoted or anything, but I’m back to working my way into gaining people’s respect instead of already having it.”

He looks back up at Richie, and Richie sees for the first time how fucking exhausted he must be. Richie clenches his fists to keep from reaching across the table and kissing Eddie, or marching down to Eddie’s office and personally destroying everyone else’s belongings.

“Have you thought about quitting?” Richie asks, thinking, _Of course he hasn’t, you dipshit_.

Eddie nods. “Briefly. But it’s not gonna happen. And at least this time I have things to look forward to outside of work.” And a smile quirks up at the corners of his mouth.

 _I love you so fucking much_ , Richie thinks. “After this can I show you something in my room?” he asks. 

Eddie raises his eyebrows but ultimately says, “Sure, Rich.”

….

As soon as the door’s closed Richie cradles Eddie’s face in his hands and leans down for as chaste of a kiss as he can manage. _Not trying to seduce you yet_ , he hopes he’s conveying, _I just need to be close to you_.

Eddie kisses him back, pulling Richie to him, pressing his thumb against his jaw and sliding his tongue into Richie’s mouth, and Richie can feel the groan building in his chest. He needs to stop. He needs to stop _now_. He already feels utterly wrecked and from here it’s either break away or have to deal with an awkward erection.

He pulls back, panting.

“I love you,” he says. _And every time I want to say it I don’t know how but I love you so fucking much and you deserve to hear it_.

Eddie reaches out and touches his cheek. “I know,” he says. “And I love you, too.”

And Richie feels the tension leave him; he sags against Eddie, foreheads pressed together, his fingertips finding the scar on Eddie’s cheek.

“I’ll be back soon,” he tells Eddie. “Soon as I can.”

“I’ll be here,” Eddie says, and after a moment he adds, “And while I’d rather you stayed, I should probably let you know that your flight leaves in about two and a half hours.”

“Oh, _fuck_.” Richie pulls back enough to see Eddie hold up his watch. “Fuckshit. Someone’s picking me up in ten minutes. God _damnit_.”

Eddie laughs as he watches Richie run into the bathroom. “Didn’t you pack earlier, Richie?” he calls after him. 

“Mostly!” Richie calls back. “I also never completely _un_ packed, so I thought I was good to go!”

“You were here for two weeks!” Eddie replies, sounding scandalized.

“And you just learned something very important about me.” Richie comes back with what he’s charitably called a toiletry bag and stuffs the remaining clothes from the half-opened chest of drawers into his suitcase. It occurs to him he packed less for two weeks than Eddie packed for three days and wonders what it would be like if they went on vacation together.

 _Baby steps, Tozier_ , he thinks. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind next time I’m here,” he says, before tossing his laptop and the couple of “stage gifts” he accumulated into the fray and zipping his suitcase shut.

“You know,” Eddie says, “If you’re not put up in a hotel during filming you can stay with me. If you want.”

Richie stops and turns to look at him. “You sure?”

Eddie looks as serious as Richie’s ever seen him. “We can make it work,” he says. “I’d at least like to try.”

Richie stares. And then he crosses the distance between them and kisses him once more. And he tries to pour everything he has trouble saying into it, to let Eddie know how much he loves him.

Richie’s phone buzzes in his pocket and Richie curses as he pulls back. “Shitbastard. Okay, they’re early.”

“ _Shitbastard?_ ” Eddie repeats, laughing, as he helps Richie get his things into the lobby. He waits with him as Richie turns over his room key and gets his receipt before leaving with him into the open street where there’s a car waiting for him, his name on the windshield.

“Six weeks,” Richie tells Eddie, and keeps looking back as he gets in, back to LA.

On the ride to the airport, he pulls out his phone and sends Eddie a picture of a Pomeranian, with the text, _will u still want to make it work if i get one of these?_

Eddie responds immediately with, _I’d make an effort if I didn’t know you were fucking bluffing_

Richie snorts. _mutually assured destruction baybee_ , he texts back, and settles in.

November, and December, and beyond.

He makes a mental note to get himself checked and once he gets a clean bill of health to text Eddie a picture of the results for posterity. Something for Eddie to put up on his fridge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -I am completely on board with the idea of Bill being the smart, empathetic, but also often oblivious friend.  
> -Given both the success and the workload of some of the Losers, I feel like there would be times in which they miss out on seeing each other or perhaps have trouble balancing work with a personal life.  
> -As always, you can find me at oooihcnoiwlerh.tumblr.com


	5. Lay All Your Love On Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie's working on himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, smut in chapters starts here. Strap in, folks.

Richie has a script in hand two days after he arrives in LA and all the time to study it. 

But right now he’s thinking about New York, and all the latent sexual issues he hasn’t told Eddie about, all in the hopes that once he was there he and Eddie could work it out for themselves.

For instance, he’s _very_ interested in getting fucked by Eddie. Some part of him has been fascinated for a long time with the idea, wanted to know if the ecstatic moans and blissfully fucked-out facial expressions he’s seen the occasions he’s been willing to let himself look at porn were completely acting or in some way sincere.

He’s also never had anything put in his ass. Not by himself, not by someone else.

He can practically hear Eddie admonishing him. _You haven’t gotten a prostate exam yet? Richie, we’re in our forties now. You can’t just ignore your own health_.

But, yeah. Never. He has a plug and an enema bulb, both unused, that he bought in a moment of (liquid) courage that sit at the bottom of his bedroom drawers. 

He’s also never penetrated another man before, but that seems far less intimidating, far less _vulnerable_ than…

 _Than_ …

He should probably tell Eddie this. It’s not like Eddie’s going to be upset to know the basic outline of Richie’s sexual history.

He doesn’t.

He hasn’t told Eddie how many men he’s sucked off, or who have sucked him off, or the women he passively attempted to sleep with in the past, but it’s a large enough number to get tested, at least. And he does, not terribly surprised to see the test come back negative a couple of days later. He screenshots the results and sends them to Eddie, who responds with first a winky face and then, _I can’t believe I just did that_. _I’ve never texted an emoji in my life._

Richie snorts and waits as the three dots hover again.

_And thank you for doing this. Takes a lot of guesswork out of the equation_

There’s still some, though. And for the most part he’s comfortable waiting until he’s back in New York. He has at least two uninterrupted weeks with Eddie, barring things like filming and Eddie’s soul-crushing corporate job.

Still. Might make things a little less of a preemptive train wreck if he takes out some of the guesswork himself, right?

He mulls it over as he considers the following: he has nothing to do today except respond to a few emails and go over his lines, he hasn’t eaten yet, and he was planning on taking a shower regardless.

He takes one of the longest showers of his life, and it’s almost excruciating, really, just to feel around to make sure he’s thoroughly clean, and he didn’t even try using the enema bulb this time

_this time_

but he finishes showering and dries himself off, not bothering to dress again as he enters his bedroom, still determined to at least give this whole thing a try. 

He gets the Vaseline out of his nightstand drawer and sets it beside him as he lays back, takes a deep breath, and spreads one leg out to the side and draws the other knee up before planting his foot on the bed.

Not too bad. Comfortable, even. He breathes in, out, before uncapping and dipping a finger into the Vaseline, spreading it between two fingers and his thumb before reaching down…

…and down…

past his balls until a single finger is pressed against his asshole. 

_breathe in, breathe out…_

Nothing earthshattering happens, with his fingertip just touching it, except perhaps the way his legs are shaking. He wraps his other hand around his still-soft cock before slowly drawing a circle around the rim.

The skin there is sensitive, and he’s not sure exactly what else he was expecting, tension coiling in his belly as he stops and presses deeper, just shy of actually sticking his finger inside, and he begins to feel his cock stiffen.

He begins to work it, slowly, arching up into both hands and trying to regulate his breathing as he squeezes his eyes shut and presses _inside_ and hears himself gasp, his hand stilling on his cock as he registers that yes, that is his own finger that is a full knuckle deep in his own ass. And it doesn’t feel bad? There’s a stretch, but it’s not painful, just awkward. He can’t imagine how stupid he looks right now, but he tries to ignore the thought and crooks his finger slightly, much as the tight passage will allow.

And it’s—it’s a lot. Even just one finger, one knuckle in and he’s squirming, nerve endings he didn’t know existed alight inside of him as he twists his finger this time, trying to loosen himself up enough to take his finger down to the second knuckle. 

Richie stares up at the ceiling as he pulls his finger out, only to press it back in as he starts to jerk himself faster. His breath starts coming in harsh gasps as he twists his finger again, corkscrewing up just past the first knuckle, and he has to stop for now, just for now, to adjust. He rocks his hips up, spreads his legs wider, and after a few deep breaths, starts again.

Because it’s starting to feel _good_. There’s a slight burn and stretch to it, but it isn’t unpleasant; far from it, when the resistance starts to give and he can more freely curl and twist his finger inside of himself.

Richie grunts and tries to match the rhythm of his finger to his hand on his cock, fully stiff now. He feels full, feels like he could burst with the roiling pressure inside of him, the slide of his finger twisting and thrusting up to, yep, there’s the second knuckle jerking Richie forward as his cock pulses. What about when _Eddie_ does this to him? How will those fingers feel inside of him as he picks up where Richie leaves off? Jesus Christ, how much more intense will it be to have Eddie’s _dick_ inside of him?

“Fuck!” Richie’s breath is harsh, hand on his cock going faster than his finger can keep up with, but that’s okay, because it feels so fucking good at both ends right now and he’s almost there, almost—and then he’s spilling over his hand

He pauses, eyes closed, to catch his breath as he slowly pulls his finger out. He’s listened to that John Mulaney special ( _“It feels like you’re shitting, because the only thing that has come out of your butt before is shit!”)_ and in that moment it’s all he can think about. It’s just as awkward and nerve-wracking feeling his finger leave his body as he’d thought; enough that as soon as it’s out he opens his eyes and sits up to make sure that no, nothing else came out of him.

Once he has that confirmation, he flops back down onto the bed, stopping only to grab a tissue from his nightstand to wipe himself off.

He doesn’t wait for the shame to set in, the taunts that sound a lot like Bowers and Hockstetter, before tossing the tissue into the wastebasket and getting up to wash his hands. 

He didn’t even get an entire finger inside of himself but it’s more than he’d had the nerve to do before. He still has the confirmation that he needed that he can get on board with an aspect of sex he’s always avoided, now that he has someone he trusts enough to do it with. And anyway, who gives a shit what a couple of dead goons would think if they knew about this? 

It doesn’t completely silence the parts of himself that are always prepared with the insults, the derision, the, _you filthy, disgusting pervert_. But he’s reaching a point in which those voices are getting easier to ignore.

………

Richie meets Bill for lunch a few days later to talk shop and just about everything else. Bill’s still working on the first draft of his new novel, which is shaping up to be over 1,000 pages even with the eventual edits.

“More to fuel the critics who bitch and moan about the rainforests that get cut down to print your books?” Richie asks.

Bill gives him a dry grin. He looks a little rougher this time around, now that Mike’s heading back to Maine to do take care of the last of his assets before he makes the permanent move to Florida. Bill’s going to help him with the move.

“But I don’t get why his heart is still set on _Florida_ , of all places,” Bill says. “I mean, he loved Southern California. Loved all of the West Coast, but he chooses to live in America’s petri dish? And he won’t be near any of us. Stan would be the closest, and that’s still a six-hour drive.”

Richie has questions. He’s had questions for a while, and he’s still not sure how to ask any of them. He starts with, “Where are you going with this, Bill?”

Bill stops, flustered. “I…” his eyes are wide. “I…I’m just _saying_.” His eyes are wide, and he’s still frozen where he sits.

When he changes the subject, Richie doesn’t stop him. Bill’s still undergoing a trial separation. Richie thinks it’s a moot point by now, given that Bill hasn’t worn his wedding ring in weeks now and any discussion of Audra begins and ends with some variation of, “She’s a nice woman. She deserves to be happy.”

Ben’s faring slightly better, if just as tired. He does end up calling Richie one evening.

“I’d wanted to ask,” Ben says, “since I think as adults we’re a lot alike, if you went through the same thing when you saw him again.”

Richie’s still stuck on the first part. “We’re a lot alike?” he repeats, dumbfounded.

“I think so. We were the only ones who left Derry but never got married. And, not to offend, but I found it pretty obvious from your standup that you weren’t dating anyone, either.”

“No offense taken,” Richie says.

“Other than Mike, it kind of seemed like we had the least in the way of any personal life, and we both got better opportunities for one than he did.

“And, neither of us even tried getting married, and I know there are other factors for you, but I was wondering, did you remember him somehow? Is that part of the reason?”

Ben sounds hopeful, Richie doesn’t want to burst his bubble.

“I knew I’d been in love before. And I knew there had to have been someone who made me realize,” _God, why is it still difficult to say?_ “realize that I’m gay. I couldn’t remember a name, or a face.” He thinks for a moment, and he snickers as he adds, “Sometimes, though, I could swear I could remember this squeaky little voice complaining about how unhygienic I was being if I didn’t wash my sheets and towels on a regular basis.

“But that’s it. I hadn’t had anything tangible to focus on. I don’t know if that helped you remember Bev.”

Ben, for his part, doesn’t sound disappointed, just thoughtful. “I think that’s probable. I didn’t even completely remember her _physically_ , except the red hair, I guess. And the poem I wrote for her. But mostly how I’d _felt_ when she was around. It had been the first time someone my age had ever been kind to me with no ulterior motive, and _that_ was what stuck with me. That kindness, and the feeling that when I was a kid with no friends, someone had reached out to me first.”

“You had her name,” Richie says.

Ben laughs on the other line. “Yeah, I did. Never did anything with it. I didn’t think it would be wise. I was convinced it was just a coincidence that there was a fashion designer with red hair named Beverly Marsh who was the same age as I was. And that even if it wasn’t, it would be _so_ inappropriate and creepy to seek her out, especially since she was married.”

“ _Was_.”

“Yeah. _Was_.” After a moment, he adds, “Can I tell you something?”

“Shoot, cowboy.”

“When Bev’s divorce is finalized, I want to propose. I’ll understand if she decides she doesn’t want to go through the whole marriage thing again, but I know I want to ask her.”

Richie, for his part, has no idea if Bev is willing to give getting married another shot, even with Ben, so instead of offering encouragement or caution, he says, “I think it’s a bit early to breach that topic with Eddie. We’d need to try, like, spending a night together first.”

Ben stutters on the other end, sounding genuinely perplexed. “Wait, have you two not…?”

“No?” Richie says, wanting to laugh at just how lost Ben sounds. “I mean, I don’t want to get into details, but we haven’t yet.”

“I’d kind of assumed that part of the reason you wanted to spend two weeks in New York was to, you know…” Richie’s pretty sure Ben’s blushing on the other line. 

“A gentleman doesn’t fuck and tell, Benvolio,” he says.

…..

Richie’s not entirely okay with Stan being the one Loser he hasn’t gotten the chance to see in person since August, and he doesn’t want to wait until December on just a few cheerful group texts and vacation pictures.

So he does what he probably should’ve thought of earlier and asks Stan if they can skype one evening. He just needs that reminder that they all made it, and Stan keeps up with the group chat the least often out of all of them.

Stan quickly agrees, and the next night Richie’s sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop open and Stan’s smiling face popping into view.

“Hey!” Richie says. “Stan the Man is back again!”

“How’re you doing, Richie?” Stan asks.

“Pretty good. Got back from New York a couple of weeks ago and I’ll be going back in in another four,” Richie tells him. 

“That’s great. How are the New York crew?”

Richie smiles. “Mostly good. Getting better. Everyone’s bogged down with work; Ben’s constantly shuttling between New York and Sydney. Bev’s still dealing with The Asshole in court. Eddie’s finalizing his divorce. But, y’know, things don’t suck as much as they used to.”

“I’d classify Eddie finalizing his divorce as a good thing,” Stan says, shifting in his chair. “Wouldn’t you?”

Richie tilts his head, considering. “I’d like it more if the divorce was over already and she hadn’t taken their house and all their friends, but yeah. Eddie leaving her is a net positive. God, I hope I never meet her.”

“I was under the impression that she was similar to his mother?” Stan asks, and Richie sees a concerned furrow in his brow.

If it were someone else, Richie might be reticent to speak, but as it stands now, “Yeah. Eerily similar. Give her a wig and Lane Bryant gift card, and you’d have her doppelgänger.”

Stan rolls his eyes. “I meant in personality,” he tells Richie.

Richie hesitates. “Yeah. From what I heard. I mean, obviously she couldn’t have gotten away with some of the stuff Sonia did…”

“Sonia was a horrible and abusive mother and I’m convinced that on some level Eddie always knew it,” Stan says suddenly. His voice gets higher, his words coming out faster as he keeps going. “Her and _fucking_ Alvin Marsh. They didn’t deserve to be parents. I don’t care if they were grieving their dead spouses or whatever the hell excuse they had.” Stan takes a deep breath, not looking at Richie, until he seems suitably calmed down.

After a moment, Richie quietly says, “ _Dude_.”

“Sorry,” Stan starts, and Richie holds up a hand.

“No, I agree with you. Just wasn’t expecting that. And you _are_ right. I mean,” Richie pauses, “We were surrounded by some weird and shitty adults. And that can’t all have been Pennywise.”

“I wish it was. I _wish_ the fact that we grew up in a town full of assholes could all be blamed on some weird, horrible creature.”

Richie finds himself thinking of Bowers, the biggest source of his trauma after Pennywise well before Pennywise had gotten to either of them, and says, “Yeah, me too.” He thinks back to what Stan said back in Derry, how all seven of them would have long-term issues stemming from childhood even without that fucking clown.

“But, enough about that for now. You’re going back to New York for work or for fun…?” Stan says, snapping Richie out of his self-inflicted pity party.

Richie grins and tells him, “I’m predicting a bit of both.”

“Oh?”

“I’m filming a movie and Eddie should be officially divorced by then.” He doesn’t waggle his eyebrows or make a lewd gesture, and of course he doesn’t have to. Stan seems to get the picture from Richie’s smug grin. 

Richie expects a customary eye roll, a groan and a “ _Beep beep, Richie!_ ” before Richie can open his mouth. Instead, Stan settles in and gives Richie a thoughtful look.

“Your face lights up when you talk about him the same way it did when we were kids,” he says.

Richie suddenly feels more known and understood than he knows how to handle. He pushes out a little laugh and, after a moment, manages, “Did you know? When were kids?”

Stan looks at him with his gaze steady. “Yeah, I knew,” he says. “I saw you two, bickering like an old married couple, always inseparable, always looking at each other when the other couldn’t see, and I knew. But I had no idea how to talk to either of you about it. With everything we grew up with, the fear and the bullying everywhere, I thought it would be better to just leave it alone.”

Richie thinks about that time, and while it would be nice to believe that he might have been willing to come out then, if only to one other person…

“Yeah, you made a safe call. If you’d come to me about liking guys, I think I’d have fucking lost it, dude.”

“That’s why I didn’t want to ask. I saw what people were writing on bathroom stalls and I didn’t want to be one of those people.”

“Thanks, Stan,” is all Richie can say. He doesn’t know how Stan, how any of them, can talk honestly. He’s trying his best, and he’s doing better than he could have imagined, but there’s still this lock on everything he can’t say. 

So he asks, “So, c’mon, man. How about you? How’ve you been?”

Stan smiles. “Pretty good, Richie. Patty and I are looking forward to a Loser’s party in December. Beyond that, it’s business as usual, really.”

Richie raises his eyebrows, waiting for more to come, and Stan’s grin turns sheepish, but he offers nothing else, just, “Things are going well at my firm,” and “Patty’s visiting a friend, but she’s looking forward to meeting you in a couple of months.”

When they log off for the night, Richie’s not entirely satisfied, still wishes he could’ve said more, but he still feels better for having seen him. The panicked, deer-in-the-headlights look Stan had throughout Derry is gone, replaced with almost tangible contentment Richie’s looking forward to seeing again.

…………

Richie didn’t grow up in a household where people talked about their feelings. He’s become an expert on hiding what he’s thinking at any given moment. He’s built an entire life and image everyone believes that’s based on a lie. Even without the fucking clown, he _knows_ he has problems. He knew before he’d suddenly remembered sixteen lost years of his life, and at the time he was prepared to ignore them, keep a smile on his face and die some sad Pagliacci type.

He schedules an appointment with a therapist.

 _Yuck it up, everyone_. _The man who’s never been able to shut up needs someone to talk to!_

 _But seriously, folks_ , he thinks as he walks into the building, takes the elevator up to the office, and feels his heart pounding as he signs in and fills out several forms, _How many therapists does it take to change a lightbulb? Just one, but it has to_ want _to change_.

He doesn’t have to wait long after turning the forms in before woman opens the door invites him into her office.

He sits on the couch and thinks about how his palms are sweating as he wipes them on his jeans, how the office is appropriately neutral, with beige walls and bookshelves lined with books on psychiatry and the woman sitting in front of him is wearing at he believes are Chico’s accessories. All seems about how he expects.

And still, he makes himself talk. He starts with the arcade for context, recalling the accusations flying left and right, with Bowers screaming in his face and not one person coming to his defense. With the tightening in his chest and the encroaching sense of dread, how it had felt like a life-or-death situation to his closeted thirteen-year-old self. Most of all he remembers the _shame_. That feeling that just by existing he was placing a target on his own back and if only he wasn’t such a clear-cut freak it would be gone.

He leaves out the part about the Paul Bunyan statue.

His therapist’s eyes have widened into near-saucers by the time he’s done talking.

“So, uh. Yeah. I’d blocked that memory out for a long time but I guess it makes sense that I spent the rest of my life trying to avoid getting into any situation like that again. There were a lot of other things I’d kept repressed, but I wanted to start with that one. I think because it was how I felt most of the time as a kid and I’m starting to realize that’s how I’ve lived my adult life, too.”

The therapist, Erica, hesitates. Then she says, “You realize now that you did nothing wrong, right? The issue was your environment, not you.”

And rationally…sure. Richie shrugs and looks down. “Yeah, I guess. But that feeling never went away. Even if it isn’t justified, I still feel it, and I don’t know how to get rid of it.”

“That’s part of the process,” Erica tells him. “It takes a while to get to that point, but it starts with making peace with that frightened child who was indoctrinated with that shame.”

The rest of the session goes by faster than Richie expected, and he’s not sure why any part of him thought he’d have his shit together in one hour, but at the end of it he feels far less nervous than when he first walked in. Maybe it was seeing someone else’s horrified reaction not to him, but to what happened to him. He talks mostly about how he’s been in the closet for thirty years and how he’s so fucking terrified to publicly come out that he’s making it into this long-term rebranding so the backlash comes in piecemeal rather than all at once. He talks about how his boyfriend was outed and how much braver he is than Richie for how he handled it. And at the end of the hour he schedules another session, one for the following week. He lets Erica know he’ll be in New York for at least two weeks, and if he has the time then to schedule a phone session, he will.

He has a lot to mull over on the drive home. The more he thinks about the past, the angrier he gets. There had never been anything less innocent about what he felt than what Ben or Bill felt. He wasn’t some pervert; he was a _child_. He was thirteen years old and primed to spend the next twenty-seven years riddled with self-loathing for something that wasn’t even _wrong_.

When he gets home he’s torn between pouring himself three shots of bourbon or killing something in a violent video game, or both. If he were a more athletic man, he’d lace up his sneakers and go for a punishing run like Eddie or Ben, but he isn’t, and in the end he calls texts Eddie a quick, _call me when you get this_.

Eddie responds within five minutes, time that Richie spends pacing around his condo.

“Hey,” Richie says, breathless, as soon as he answers his phone. “Hey. I just, I needed to hear your voice. I had my first therapy appointment an hour ago and.” He laughs, and it sounds harsh to him. “It’s rough. Talking about all this shit out loud.”

“Yeah.” Eddie’s voice is, for once, far calmer than his. “Yeah it is. I can’t fucking tell you how humiliating it was talking about all my issues with my mother. How mad I was at her when I can’t even do anything about it at this point. This shit sucks. It’s worth it, but it sucks.”

Richie’s calmed down enough to sit. “I’m gonna keep going,” he says. 

“That’s good,” Eddie says, a smile in his voice. Richie can imagine him, his dimples deepening and dark eyes glinting and he grins back.

“But you’re right. It kinda sucks at first.”

“I love you,” Eddie says suddenly. “And I don’t know if you needed to hear this, but I want to say it. You’re doing so good, Richie. I’m proud of you.”

Richie feels his chest tighten. His ears ring. He clutches his phone, wishing he had something articulate to say.

He says, “I love you, too,” and for now, it’s enough.

…………

He has a week left until he’s needed on set and he’s sitting idly at his laptop, wondering what to watch tonight when Eddie calls him.

“Hey, can I skype you?” is all he asks.

Not a minute later, Richie’s skyping Eddie, who’s in what look like a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, beaming at him and holding what look like several notarized papers.

“It’s done, Richie,” Eddie tells him. “I’m officially a divorced man.”

Richie’s suddenly breathless, the fucking world of possibilities suddenly laid out in front of him. Eddie may be laid out in front of him.

“How’d you feel if I flew in to New York tomorrow?” Richie asks.

Eddie’s smile grows. “If you did, I would personally clear it with my boss to get off work early and pick you up at the airport,” he says.

Richie can’t help but do it; a smirk forms at the corners of his mouth as he says, “and after that?”

Eddie falters, eyes widening, before he leans forward and says, quietly, to the laptop, “I’d take you to my apartment.”

“What would you wanna do there?” Richie asks, thinking of every explicit thing he’s wanted to tell Eddie, every explicit thing he wants to do with Eddie, and feels his cock twitch in his pants.

“ _Everything_ ,” Eddie tells him. His voice has gotten rougher, his eyes seem darker. “Richie, are we—are we doing this?”

“Doing what?” Richie asks, knowing full well what Eddie means and wanting desperately to hear Eddie say the words.

“Are we gonna jack off like this?” Eddie asks. “Right here? On skype?”

“If you want to,” Richie says. “I know I do. I swear to God, I’m scared I won’t last a second as soon as we’re alone together.”

Eddie looks him over, then says, quietly, “In a way, we’re alone together right now. Even if I can’t suck your dick until you get to New York.”

Richie’s breath catches as his mind turns to static for a second until he grabs his laptop and says, “Yeah, I’m gonna move to where you can see just how hard you’re making me. Wait a sec,” before moving to the couch and setting the laptop down on the coffee table. He hears Eddie cackling on the other end as he sits down, his jeans tighter than they were before. 

“You said something about—”

“Sucking your dick?” Eddie asks, eyebrows raised. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“You’ve never done it before,” Richie says.

Eddie smirks and shrugs. “We have time and I’m an excellent study. So how about it?”

“I’m on board,” Richie tells him. “But what about you? When’s the last time you got _your_ dick sucked, Eds?”

And immediately a dark look passes over Eddie’s face and he sighs. “Come on, man.”

Richie almost balks, wondering if and how he ruined the mood, desperately trying to revive it. “What?” he asks. “It’s an honest question. When’s the last time someone got down on their knees and blew you?”

Eddie takes a deep breath and says, in a sad exhale, “Never.”

It takes a moment to sink in. And when it does, Richie barely refrains from saying something like, “ _Yeah, should’ve known Myra Kaspbrak wasn’t exactly a blowjob queen_.”

Instead, he says, “Jesus Fuck, I’m going to blow you every chance I get if it makes up a fraction of lost time.”

Eddie furrows his brows and gives Richie a doubtful look. “You really don’t have to if you don’t want—”

“Eddie.” Richie’s voice cuts through. “I want to. I _want_ your cock down my throat. I _want_ to go down on you as often as you’re willing to put up with it. And I will prove it to you as soon as I’m in New York with you.”

Eddie looks dumbfounded on the other end, maybe is. Richie can see him start to fill out the crotch of his pajama pants. “You…” he tries, and starts again. “You really mean that.” Screw dumbfounded, he looks _awestruck_.

“Yeah,” Richie says, smiling. “And if you wait, like, eighteen hours I’ll show you how much I mean it.”

Eddie licks his lips, his face setting before he asks, “What else do you wanna do with me?”

“I wanna fuck you,” Richie tells him. “When I saw you in Derry with no shirt I was fucking gone. All I could think about was seeing more of you, then seeing more of you speared on my cock.”

Eddie inhales, a bare gasp, before sitting up and wordlessly tugging on the back of his shirt, pulling it off and over his head, and Richie gets a view he’s been craving for fucking months now, Eddie’s body, taut, sinewy, dusted with hair and _completely intact_. He almost misses Eddie nodding at him, as if to say, _You, too, Tozier_.

Richie snorts. “You’re gonna be disappointed,” he says.

“Oh, fuck off,” Eddie snaps. “The only disappointing thing is that I haven’t gotten to see you naked yet. You think you’re the only one who’s thought about that shit? I have. Constantly.”

And that’s enough to get Richie pulling his shirt off with such finesse his glasses briefly fall off. By the time he’s righted them, Eddie’s staring at him, his mouth open and his eyes traveling up and down the screen.

Richie has a decent body by stand-up comedian standards. But by Eddie standards? “Get enough of my hairy dad-bod?” he asks.

“Can’t fucking wait to get enough,” Eddie tells him. “Jesus Christ. All I can think about is getting my hands on your chest while I’m riding your cock.”

And Richie officially loses it. His composure? Gone. Snapped like a twig. “You wanna ride my cock, Eddie?” he asks, and he’s palming himself through his jeans in full view of Eddie and he needs that go ahead to unzip himself.

“Yeah I wanna ride it, but I gotta see it first, Rich.”

And that’s all Richie needs before he’s unzipping his fly and pulling himself out, fully hard and aching for some release, and watches Eddie shift and gasp once more.

“ _God._ I…I have never done this before.”

“Anal? Skype-sex? Dirty-talk?” Richie asks, trying to hold back, trying to be patient.

“Any of it,” Eddie tells him. 

“Can you start by showing me your cock, too, Eddie?” Richie asks him. 

Eddie takes a deep breath, nods, and frees himself from his pajama pants.

It’s larger than Richie expected. Thick, slightly curved, completely erect, the tip flushed as Eddie sits back and draws his thumb over the tip. He only starts to work lazily once he resumes talking.

“I want to fuck myself on that fat cock of yours, Richie. I want to watch your face as I do it, come all over your chest as you fill me up. I’m counting on that being a thing.” 

Richie groans and starts working himself, so close when he’s only just started. “You’d look so fucking good bouncing on my cock, Eds,” he tells him. “Those runner’s legs working to haul yourself up and down? That ass? I want you, all of you.”

“Fuck. Me too. And once I’m done riding you, you know what else I wanna do?” Eddie’s going faster, getting breathless.

“Tell me,” Richie manages, speeding up, ready for anything.

“I want to fuck you. Any way I can get you under me and opened up. On your back, on your hands and knees, whatever you can handle is what I want.”

“I want you to,” Richie tells him. “And you’d be the first. No matter how we do this, you fucking me or me fucking you, you’re the only one.”

Eddie falters. “You’ve never been fucked?” he asks, his face and chest flushed.

“Only person who’s been near my ass is me,” Richie says, “while I was thinking about you.”

Eddie gives an incredulous half-laugh before he starts jerking himself again. “I wish I’d seen it,” he says. “You opening yourself up, naked, those long legs spread out as you wish the fingers in your ass were mine.”

“Yeah,” Richie tells him. “Exactly like that. Thinking about how you’d take your time to make sure I was loosened up enough for you before fucking me so good my legs shake and I think I’ve reached a higher plane.”

“ _Fuck!_ ” Eddie speeds up. “I’m not gonna last, Richie. I’m so close.” 

“Me, too,” Richie manages. “Can’t fucking wait to spend a week in bed getting railed. All I’ve ever had was a goddamn finger and all I can think about right now is you splitting me open your cock, Eds.”

Eddie gasps and stills, back arching as he comes over his fist and the sight of that has Richie coming in turn.

They both settle back, gasping and recalibrate. Eddie recovers first, leaving the screen for a few seconds before returning with wipes. Richie manages to lift himself off the couch long enough to reach for the tissue box on the coffee table before settling back down.

“Tomorrow morning,” Richie tells him, “I’ll be there.”

Eddie smiles. “Yeah, I’m holding you to that. Send me your ETA when you have it and I’ll be there.”

Once he’s logged off Richie texts Steve, _heading to NY early if anyone needs me_ , before looking up flight plans.

Eddie’s free. Eddie’s divorced. Eddie could be with whoever the fuck he wanted, and if Richie is lucky enough to be that person, he is going to take every opportunity to see him he can get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me at ooihcnoiwlerh.tumblr.com


	6. The Touch of Your Lips is a Shock Not a Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie arrives in New York

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So, since I'm updating more frequently, chapters may get a little shorter, especially as I have additional writing projects, but hopefully no one minds too much.

Richie’s managed to calm Steve down easily enough. _Nothing’s wrong, I’m just going to New York early to stay with a friend. No, don’t book me a hotel, I don’t need one. Yes, I’ll let you know if anything changes._

“Who is this friend, exactly?” Steve asks.

Richie takes his suitcase out of his closet. “My boyfriend,” he says. “He lives in Manhattan.”

He thinks about when to set his alarm—his plane leaves at eight AM tomorrow, he’ll need to be at the airport no later than six, so he should make sure there’s an uber or lyft available no later than…

“Your boyfriend lives on the other side of the country?” Steve asks. “That why you wanted to spend two weeks pogo-ing between comedy clubs and theaters in the New York tri-state area?”

“Part of the reason,” Richie says. “Part of it was to help my career along and it worked so, you can’t be mad at me.” He opens his drawers and starts pulling out shirts. “And I need to get packing, so I’ll call you later.”

Steve sighs. “Yeah, sure, fine. Just…let me know if you change your mind about when you want to come out.”

Richie stops ransacking his drawers. “What are you talking about?” he asks, still clutching his phone when he should be packing, should be _planning_. “Nothing’s changed. I spent time with him in New York just over a month ago and no one caught on.”

“Yeah, but,” Steve sighs. “You didn’t go galivanting off to live with another man a month ago. Paps tend to notice these things, Rich.”

Richie freezes, fear taking hold of him. Images he’s thought about often enough before, of magazines with his face splashed across the front page and headlines like, _Richie Tozier: Sordid Gay Affair?_

Then the image is replaced with Eddie, meeting him at the airport, and he calms down. “Steve,” he says, “I managed to convince everyone in my adult life that I was straight. I think I got this.”

“Great. I’m going to make sure you have an on-set personal assistant during filming. Think maybe you want to hit up a couple of clubs while you’re there? Polish up some of your new material? Make your ex-ghostwriter feel better about his severance check?”

“Yeah. Yeah, all good.” _Hang up, Steve. I need to get ready to spend a week in bed with the man of my dreams._

“Is he prepared to deal with being in the public eye, this boyfriend of yours?” Steve asks. 

Richie stops again. Here’s the thing: he doesn’t know. Hadn’t occurred to him that Eddie _would_ be. He doesn’t hear much about the non-famous spouses of the rich and famous, so why would people be focused on Eddie?

But if people _were_ , would Eddie be able to handle it, with his high-powered corporate job and constant anxiety?

“That’s really for me and him to talk about, Steve,” Richie says, and hangs up. He gives himself a moment to sit down on his bed among his flung-about shirts and think.

What’s _Eddie’s_ contingency plan for Richie’s coming out? He probably has one, even as Richie doesn’t. He’s probably assessed the risks of dating a moderately-famous comedian.

 _And he wants to rail you into next week, dummy. Now get packing_. Richie gets back up and folds in a couple of weeks’ worth of clothes, an extra pair of shoes, and a couple different extra extension cords before remembering two very important things and deciding he really doesn’t care about how awkward it might be; he packs the enema bulb and plug he’s left at the bottom of his drawers.

He manages to get a couple of restless hours between midnight and three before he gives up and takes a shower, packs his toiletries in a couple of freezer bags, and spends the remaining time emptying his somewhat scant fridge of anything that will spoil soon and taking out the trash, and spending aimless time on his laptop before getting a lyft to the airport.

He drinks coffee while waiting to board and hopes it won’t stop him from getting some sleep on the flight. It does.

He repeatedly tries to get a nap in, and his seat in business class is comfortable enough, but he can’t manage it and it’s not a long enough flight to justify a sleeping pill, so his best bet is to hope that Eddie either can’t tell or doesn’t mind that Richie’s running on fumes. A flight attendant mentions that she lives in Queens, saw Richie in New York during his two-week stint with her boyfriend, and thought he was funny. Even if her boyfriend thinks he’s “getting kinda soy.” Richie thanks her.

It’s four-thirty when his plane lands, four forty-five when he reaches baggage claim and, finally, Eddie.

And Richie realizes immediately that he’s never seen Eddie dressed for work; Eddie had always changed into something less formal every time they met up during those two weeks, and he didn’t think about how Eddie looks in a suit.

Richie had worried he’d be too jet-lagged to get anything going with Eddie, at least not without a long nap first. That’s clearly not a problem when he sees Eddie in a neatly-tailored dark blue suit that seems as molded to him as possible without being obscene, his hair slicked back and him looking like he belongs on the cover of a fucking magazine as he checks his phone, seeming unaware at first that Richie’s here.

“Eds!” Richie calls to him, and waves, too impatient to play any kind of coy ‘ _come and find me_ ’ game with him.

Eddie looks up, and his responding smile sends Richie into a jog towards him.

He’s not thinking about paps or anything else when he pulls Eddie into a hug. He’s just thinking about how good Eddie smells, how warm he is in Richie’s arms and how solid as Eddie hugs him back, not a hint of self-consciousness to spoil the moment until they pull away and Richie holds it together long enough to get his suitcase and follow Eddie to his car.

He stops when he sees it; a large, appallingly ugly eyesore painted black.

“If I hadn’t gotten confirmation otherwise, I’d swear you were compensating for something,” Richie says as he stares.

Eddie raises one eyebrow. “Your chariot awaits, Mr. Tozier,” he says, and unlocks the trunk.

“Seriously,” Richie says as Eddie helps him get his suitcase in. “This doesn’t seem like your speed at all.”

“It’s a company car,” Eddie explains. “The one I took up to Derry was mine and Myra’s. And now it’s just Myra’s.”

“Of _course_ it’s a company car. It screams, _I have a tiny dick, do a lot of coke, and demand to be taken seriously_.”

Eddie rolls his eyes but gives a little huffed laugh that’s concession enough as they get in.

“Is that what you wear to work every day?” Richie asks as soon as they’re on the road.

Eddie gives an exaggerated groan. “Yeah, sure. Go ahead and make fun of my corporate shill uniform, I can handle it.”

Richie smiles, looking him over. “I was actually going to say that at least half your interns must be desperately in love with you if this is what you look like around the office.”

Eddie snorts. “I doubt that. I made an intern cry last week.”

“You didn’t!” Richie tries to sound scandalized, even as he starts cracking up. 

“I saw her break a copier and then try to walk away like nothing happened!” Eddie’s laughing, too. “God, I have no idea why you’re into any of this.”

Richie almost stops, almost says, _Hey, I’m the only one who’s allowed to be self-deprecating here_. “I have no idea how a million guys haven’t asked you out at this point.”

Eddie doesn’t seem to know what to say this. He just focuses on the road for a moment, and Richie wonders, did he strike a nerve?

And finally, Eddie says, “Only one’s asked who matters.” And he glances over at Richie with a smile. And Richie’s pretty sure his heart grows two sizes.

New York traffic, even with the relatively short distance they have to travel, gives them time to talk about Richie’s new movie, his filming schedule. How his manager feels he needs a babysitter and is probably right about that.

“I have tomorrow off,” Eddie tells him. “I need to go back to work Friday, but I told my superiors that I have family visiting from out of town, so I doubt they’ll mind if I leave work at five for once. They let me leave early today, anyway.”

“Not early enough to get changed, though,” Richie says, still not quite over the suit. “Which is, like, the farthest thing from a problem.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows as he glances back at him. “Is the suit actually doing something for you, Richie?” he asks, sounding incredulous.

“Uh,” Richie does a dramatic once-over, “ _Yeah_. In the future—not this time, but at some point—I would not mind in the slightest if you wore that. During.”  
Eddie’s eyes widen and he swallows hard before looking back at the road. “ _Noted_ ,” he says.

Richie thinks that he’d liked to reach over and palm Eddie through his slacks, if he didn’t think Eddie would be mortified and slap his hand away, citing something about the risk of getting into a car accident. As it stands, they get to Eddie’s building without incident, and Eddie’s one of those few, lucky New Yorkers who lives in a building with underground parking.

“I have the option of renewing the lease for myself when I’m done subletting it in February,” Eddie says. “And if I still want to live in New York by then, I probably will.”

Eddie’s building is, at least for Manhattan standards, a nice one. It has a working elevator, and according to Eddie, a laundry facility in the basement. 

It’s all awkward small talk as they make their way to Eddie’s floor, and Eddie fumbles with the keys to his door.

“So, I told you it’s a one-bedroom, right?” Eddie says as he finds his room key. “By the way, I did have a spare key made for you, it’s on the kitchen table so neither of us would forget—”

He opens the door and first thing he says as soon as they’re both inside and the door is locked isn’t, ‘ _Take me to bed and fuck me senseless, Richie’_ but, “By the way, I like to keep shoes off in the apartment. It’s not a requirement, just a preference, and mostly just a flooring thing.” 

And Richie, dumbfounded, kicks off his shoes and leaves them next to the door as Eddie bends down and unties his. And in that time, he has just enough to glance around at the joint dining and living area, the small kitchen all decorated in a minimalist style. Everything is as clean as Richie would imagine, and almost as sparse.

Eddie’s done as soon as Richie thinks this and says, “Should we leave the unpacking for later?”

Next thing he knows Eddie has Richie by the shoulders and is kissing him as he pushes Richie’s jacket off of him, where Richie passively lets it fall to the floor before he gets to work on Eddie’s, unbuttoning it before Eddie pulls back to take it off himself.

Richie looks at Eddie’s open, panting mouth, his hair already coming free from its tightly gelled hold and his heaving chest.

And Eddie takes his hand and leads him to the bedroom.

Richie’s pretty sure he registers what Eddie’s bedroom looks like; as minimalist and bare as everything else. He _does_ notice that there’s a bed easily large enough for the two of them. And that’s all that he really cares about once Eddie resumes the kiss from the front door and reaches for the hem of Richie’s shirt.

Richie fumbles for Eddie’s tie, trying to loosen it enough to at least get to all the buttons of his shirt, and he’s almost overwhelmed. He’s never _had_ this. Forty years and a few stolen rendezvous in dressing rooms and bathroom stalls and he’s _never_ undressed another man, or been undressed by one. This is the most intimate thing he’s ever done; a milestone he knows he’ll surpass soon but still enough that he needs a moment to bury his face in Eddie’s hair. He doesn’t want to lose any of this, see it all go by too fast for him to keep up. This is _Eddie_. This is the man some part of him has been in love with since he was _eleven_. This is the man he almost lost before they could even begin to have anything together.

“Hey,” he hears Eddie murmur, one arm wrapped around Richie’s shoulders as his free hand strokes Richie’s hair. “I’m nervous, too.”

Richie pulls back and looks Eddie over, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal another, white undershirt just tucked out of his slacks, his tie discarded, all willingly rumpled and messed up for him. “I was trying to figure out what cologne you’re wearing, actually. Calvin Klein?”

Eddie snickers and tilts his head as he looks up at him. “Take off your shirt, Tozier,” he says, as he unbuttons the cuffs to his sleeves.

Richie hesitates, and Eddie stops.

“Everything alright?” he asks, and Richie can’t answer. He hasn’t taken off his shirt during sex with _anyone_ in…what, eight years? Ten? He _knows_ Eddie doesn’t have an issue with how his body looks. Eddie _just saw it_ and appeared to like what he saw. But it’s another level of intimacy he hasn’t had before, didn’t think about until just now.

He tries to breathe in, breathe out, focus on Eddie’s face as he says gruffly, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” and pulls his shirt over his head before tossing it to the floor beside him; first band-aid ripped off. And it doesn’t hurt as much as he expected.

Especially not when Eddie steps forward and pulls Richie down for another kiss, and trails his hands _so gently_ over Richie’s bare back and shoulders. Richie sags, giving in, letting himself be seen and touched and _known_. Eddie’s hands move to Richie’s sides and trail down, over his love handles and to his hips, and Richie manages to keep himself composed enough that when Eddie begins to pull back, Richie pulls Eddie’s button-down off him with relative finesse.

He registers the vein in Eddie’s left bicep, the way his undershirt stretches across his chest, before Eddie pulls it off and leans up to kiss Richie without giving Richie enough time to admire him up close and leans into him with arms wrapped around his shoulder and chest pressed to his chest.

He realizes that Eddie’s walking him backwards towards the bed before he stops, thinking of last night, how Eddie had told him no one had ever gone down on him before. And he quite simply can’t let another moment pass without changing that.

“Can you sit down for me?” he murmurs against Eddie’s mouth, and Eddie sighs before drawing back.

“For what?” he asks, and his eyes are wide and he already looks messed up.

“On the edge of the bed? Can you do that for me?” Richie asks him.

Eddie glances at the bed behind him, and, pausing only to touch Richie’s arm, complies. He’s naked from the waist up, lean and sinewy and fucking sexy. Richie gets a good look at the smattering of hair on his chest, at his happy trail, before he steps in closer and drops to his knees.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” he hears Eddie say above him. 

Richie runs his hands over Eddie’s knees to guide them further apart, encourages Eddie to sit up closer to him, before he reaches out and presses a kiss to Eddie’s stomach.

He hears Eddie gasp as he does it, as he unbuckles Eddie’s belt and gets his slacks open to reveal a pair of black boxer-briefs underneath, where Eddie’s just starting to tent. He spares a glance up at Eddie’s face, his wide eyes and flushed pink cheeks, then at Eddie’s hands, clutched in the sheets, and brings his head down to mouth at the black fabric. 

“ _Oh my God_.” Eddie almost thrusts forward, and Richie can _feel_ him hold back, thighs tensing under Richie’s hands and stomach clenching, and it’s enough that he knows he shouldn’t tease Eddie any further. Not now, anyway. They have time to revisit this a different way. For now, though…

“Lift your hips for me,” Richie tells him, and after a moment, he feels Eddie clumsily comply, raising up enough for Richie to pull down his slacks and underwear in one go, dragging them over his thighs and past his knees, where the drop to the floor and pool around his ankles. They can deal with _that_ later, but for now Richie runs one hand over Eddie’s bare thigh, feeling the course hair under his palm, the tightly coiled muscle, as his other grips the base of Eddie’s quickly-stiffening cock.

“Richie, you don’t have to—” Eddie starts, and Richie leans down to take the tip into his mouth.

Eddie gasps, immediately burying a hand in Richie’s hair, and Richie spares a glance up at Eddie’s wide eyes and open, gaping mouth as he takes in more of him.

He can’t take all of Eddie’s cock yet. He knows he will, in time, though, and in the meantime he moans as he takes as much of it as he can, bobbing his head and letting his free hand travel along Eddie’s hip, his thigh, between Eddie’s legs to caress his balls.

Eddie moans, already sounding desperate, his fingers tightening in Richie’s hair but nothing else, letting Richie set the pace even as his breath grows harsh.

Richie’s used to hard linoleum on his knees, the smell of cheap bathroom cleaner, of bathroom stalls and having his head pushed down and mouth fucked by some fully-dressed stranger with no last name.

He’s not used to this kind of skin-on-skin intimacy, of someone stroking his hair, of someone murmuring his name with increasing urgency. He’s never had _anything_ like this.

He fucking loves it, how Eddie feels on his tongue, how responsive he is, how vocal. He makes sure he’s as vocal as possible in return, show how much he enjoys sucking Eddie’s cock, how eager he is to do it again at the earliest possible moment, so Eddie isn’t stuck thinking that this is a chore to be endured or avoided. 

“Richie…” Eddie draws his hand from Richie’s hair to his cheek. “Richie, I’m not gonna last…”

Richie glances back up at him. Eddie’s chest is now flushed, too, and his pupils dilated.

Richie goes back down, wet, loud, and sloppy around Eddie as he keeps working him. He feels Eddie’s cock pulse and twitch, hears Eddie’s moan above him as he comes down Richie’s throat.

Richie swallows down and doesn’t pull off of Eddie until he’s fully softened in Richie’s mouth.

And then he sits back and takes a deep breath before looking up.

Eddie’s eyes are huge; one hand still cups Richie’s face and the other still buried in the mattress. That is, until, he leans forward and reaches for Richie’s shoulders, pulling him up.

“Come here,” he instructs him, and sits farther back against the bed, taking Richie with him, the two of them toppling back and reconfiguring themselves, Eddie manhandling him until he has Richie under him.

Richie lays back, breath catching as Eddie sits, now naked save for his socks, above him, straddling Richie’s knees as he reaches for his belt.

“Are you…?” Richie starts, unsure what to make of Eddie, sitting naked on top of him and working open his belt buckle and fly. 

Eddie gives him a sharp glance. “You okay, Richie?” he asks.

Richie manages a nod as he exhales. He’s fully hard, infinitely grateful Eddie’s sitting up far enough that it won’t be too much of a shock when Eddie gets his pants and his boxers far enough down his hips that he’s free.

He gives a sharp inhale once that happens, and watches Eddie’s expression to see if there’s any doubt, anything to suggest Eddie isn’t up for it, because he’s _not_ going to force anything on Eddie that he’s not ready for. 

Eddie’s eyes widen, mouth parting once more for a moment as he tugs Richie’s pants further down his thighs.

If Richie weren’t so goddamn nervous he’d try to make a joke. _Objects up close are larger than they appear on Skype, Eds._

“Listen, Eds, if you’re not ready, you don’t have to do anything,” he says instead.

Eddie reacts almost viscerally, groaning and rolling his eyes as he slumps back. “Oh, come on, Richie. I wouldn’t be here right now if I wasn’t ready for you. Just give me a second to decide what it is I want to do with you, okay?”

He waits for Richie to nod, once, before pausing, eyes narrowing.

And then he leans down and presses a kiss to Richie’s chest, closing his mouth around Richie’s nipple.

Richie arches off the bed immediately. _That_. No one’s ever done that to him. 

Eddie starts. “Good or bad?” he asks, brow furrowed. 

“I…” Richie tries to think, and all he _can_ think is that his erection hasn’t flagged yet. “Good, I guess? I don’t really know yet.”

And he can see Eddie considering this, filing this reaction for further research down the road, and feels a rush of affection. Eddie Kaspbrak, the Thinking Man. He settles back and tries to let go, trust Eddie to make his own discoveries even as he’s so oversensitive he feels like he’s nothing but nerves as Eddie presses another kiss, lower, to his stomach and immediately sucks in his gut.

“ _Hey_ ,” Eddie says sharply, pressing a hand to Richie’s stomach, “None of that.” And he waits for Richie to relax, slowly and by degrees, before his mouth is hovering just near Richie’s cock.

“Eddie, just do what you’re comfortable with—” Richie starts before Eddie wraps a hand around Richie’s cock and wraps his mouth around the tip.

Richie tries not to arch up as he gasps; _Eddie’s_ warm mouth is on _his_ dick. _Eddie is willingly taking him into his mouth._

And he can’t take Richie in more than a couple of inches, and that’s fine. His hand is working what his mouth can’t, and even as the rhythm is somewhat slow, somewhat awkward in an attempt to make sure he doesn’t accidentally put his teeth on him, it’s so fucking good. Eddie grows in confidence with every second, his hand finding a rhythm that works and his mouth finally following once he gets the hang of it, and Richie groans, trying to hold off as the pressure builds in his gut, as he looks down and sees _Eddie’s head in his lap,_ working over his cock, and Richie leans down to caress his hair.

Eddie gives a soft moan as he does it, and it’s almost enough. Richie feels himself twitch in Eddie’s mouth, and after a quick glance up at him, Eddie moans again, taking him in another inch.

“ _Fuck_. Oh, _fuck_ , Eddie.” Richie manages to keep his hips still, but it’s a losing battle between himself and time. “Eddie, if you don’t want it in your mouth…”

Eddie pauses, completely still for long enough that Richie can feel himself nearly tremble with the need for _some_ release.

And then he keeps going, mouth sealed around Richie’s cock until Richie groans and shudders as he comes.

Eddie coughs as he pulls off, but swallows regardless before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Richie still feels stunned as Eddie sits up and catches his breath before sliding Richie’s pants the rest of the way off of him and flopping down beside him.

Richie turns and looks at Eddie, his golden skin highlighted as the setting sun shines through the blinds, his naked body relaxed and prone, his softened cock. 

“You know, it’s a shame we’re not in college anymore and can’t go again like, right now,” he says, and Eddie snickers.

“I was a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet in college and never cut my hair,” he says drily.

“Sounds hot,” Richie says, and Eddie laughs again before turning and bracing himself on top of Richie. Richie buries one hand in Eddie’s hair, wraps the other around his waist as Eddie kisses him and tangles their legs together.

As soon as their lips part, Richie asks, “You know we’re kissing right after we blew each other, right?” _That doesn’t gross you out?_

“Yeah, Richie, I know,” Eddie tells him. “I was there.” And he kisses him again. And again. And again. 

For a while they lay there, Eddie burying his face against Richie’s neck and sliding one leg between his, and Richie’s pretty sure he’s never felt more contented in his life. 

Until his stomach growls, anyway.

Eddie buries his laugh in Richie’s shoulder. 

“I’m only human, Edjamen,” Richie says, laughing along with him.

Eddie lifts himself up and kisses Richie before sitting up completely. “And you’re not the only one who gets hungry. Gimme a second to grab my phone so we can decide on a place that delivers.”

Eddie gets out of bed to reach for his pants, and Richie makes sure to take in the muscles in Eddie’s back and shoulders, the taper of his narrow waist, the dimples above his ass. Jesus Fuck, Eddie’s _ass_. And thighs. He settles back on his elbows and grins shamelessly as Eddie turns around.

“So, got a good look?” Eddie asks, grinning back.

“Hopefully the first of many,” Richie tells him, and Eddie laughs before climbing back into bed with him once more, phone and hunger briefly forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me at ooihcnoiwlerh.tumblr.com


	7. Satisfaction of What's to Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie and Richie have a few days alone in New York.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...yeah. I'm sorry this took a little over the promised week. This was also a longer chapter than I was expecting.

Richie could get lost in it, having Eddie against him. Eddie’s body slots against his with such ease they feel like puzzle pieces. Right now, it’s never been easier to ignore that part of him, alarmed, panicking, _there’s a naked man in bed with you!_

_There sure is. And not just any man, but Eddie Kaspbrak, the man I’ve been in love with for nearly thirty years._

“Hey,” Eddie murmurs, brushing his mouth over Richie’s jaw. “You doing alright, Richie?”

Richie smiles to himself. “Yeah. Yeah, I am,” he says, and he means it. He doesn’t want to get sappy, doesn’t know how to express everything going on within him right now, the dam ready to burst with the love and contentment he’s feeling right now. He never thought he’d experience anything like this, and this— _this_ is just the beginning.

“How about you, Eds?” he asks, running his hands through Eddie’s hair.

“Me?” Eddie asks, pulling back enough to look him in the eye. “I’m feeling great.” He smiles and presses one last kiss to Richie’s mouth before moving and reaching for his boxer briefs and his phone. He spares a glance at Richie as he pulls on the former, sliding back to lay beside him as he fiddles with the latter.

“So, is it safe to assume you’re hungry and slightly jet-lagged?” Eddie asks as he pulls up a delivery app.

Richie takes a breath, considering how especially post-orgasm he feels like a wet reg drained and tossed onto Eddie’s bed. “That would not be an unfair assessment,” he admits. 

“Anything specific you want to eat?”

“Your ass,” Richie says without thinking, and watches Eddie flush, eyes widening briefly before he focuses his attention back on his phone.

“Let’s work up to that and start off with actual food tonight,” Eddie says, mumbling his way through it and not looking up as he continues to slide through the app. They settle on Thai food, enough that they’ll have leftovers to keep in the fridge.

“Which reminds me,” Eddie says, heading over to his drawers for a t-shirt and pair of shorts, “We need to get you settled in. So, I cleared out part of the fridge so you can get and keep whatever you want there, and left some room in the drawers for your clothes. And, quick warning, my bathroom’s pretty small but there’s space for you to keep your toothbrush and all that.”

Richie tries to digest this information as the significance fully dawns on him; Eddie is making a home for Richie with him. This is what a domestic relationship looks like.

And that’s also what Eddie looks like in just boxer briefs as he casually explains all this to Richie like it isn’t mind-blowing.

Richie demurs into putting his shirt and boxers back on as Eddie cleans up the trail of clothes they’ve left behind, and they wait for the food to arrive. They spend much of that wait time helping Richie get unpacked. Eddie takes one look at the Ziploc bag Richie’s keeping his toothbrush and toothpaste in and immediately offers to buy him a toiletry bag.

Richie remembers—and almost panics—as he reaches the bottom of his suitcase and Eddie notices two conspicuous items.

“Uh,” Richie starts, and tries to think of something to say, coming up blank before feebly going, “They’re not apartment-warming gifts, but they could be.”

Eddie eyes them, then glances up at Richie with a look Richie’s too nerve-wracked to decipher. “Have you used these, Richie?” he asks.

“Not yet,” Richie tells him, and Eddie _hmms_.

“Well, I figure _that_ ,” he says, pointing to the enema bulb nestled there among the last of Richie’s socks and boxers, “can go in the bathroom, under the sink—don’t worry, it’s all clean—and _that_ ,” he points to the plug, “could maybe go in the nightstand drawer?”

And he doesn’t ask anything else; the unspoken understanding is clear: he won’t push Richie farther and Richie’s willing to go right now. They’ve come to each other, nervous and beaten down and with a thousand caveats each and _that’s fine_.

Richie gives him a small smile and picks up the bulb to take into the bathroom, and finds that under the sink, along with a couple of cleaning supplies and spare toilet paper, is another, differently-colored bulb. 

A laugh bubbles out of him before he clasps one hand over his mouth, and he returns to the bedroom feeling considerably less fucking exposed.

They eat at what doubles as both a coffee- and kitchen table, after Eddie’s gotten them water and poured them each a finger of bourbon. (“Whatever food or coffee or alcohol is in the apartment is yours, as long as you let me know what we need to get more of,” Eddie tells him, and Richie feels another pang.)

Eddie makes sure all the leftovers are combined in the most efficient way and sticks them in the fridge.

Richie’s the one to suggest a movie. He’d like to say that he’s gotten his second wind and is ready to screw Eddie’s brains out right now, but between the lack of sleep, the flight and time zone shift, and the combination of drunken noodles and basil chicken resting in his stomach, he just wants to be close to Eddie.

Eddie doesn’t have a TV, but it’s simple enough to pull up Netflix on his laptop, and Richie pours himself a second finger of bourbon as he joins Eddie on the couch, where Eddie’s provided a throw blanket for them.

“Ever see Bob’s Burgers?” Richie asks as he settles in. 

Eddie glances doubtfully at the thumbnail. “A cartoon?” he asks with uncertainty.

“No, it’s funny. I voice a character on that one,” Richie says, and Eddie considers this, before pulling it up.

“Let’s start with your episodes, then,” he says, and they start arranging themselves more comfortably as the episodes go on, and Eddie snickers at the right times as he leans in against Richie’s chest.

“Louise kind of reminds me of you when we were kids,” Eddie says at one point.

“Really?” Richie asks, and he doesn’t know when he started absently stroking Eddie’s hair, but he is, and it’s as calming as feeling Eddie’s steady breath. “I’d always thought you were more of a tiny gremlin than me.”

“I hated that movie,” Eddie says, nestled against Richie like he was made to be there. “Freaked me the fuck out when I first saw it.”

“You’re missing my part, Eduardo,” Richie says, and Eddie quiets down, chuckling at the right times as Richie utterly revels in this. As kids he’d craved Eddie’s hand in his, the warmth of his body close to his own, had felt completely upended whenever Eddie had marched over and wormed his way into Richie’s personal space as if he knew he was supposed to be there. That combination of _I want this more than anything_ , and the fear of Eddie knowing all the jumbled-together thoughts Richie had been scared of, then. Is still working on not being scared of. He wraps an arm around Eddie and right now, at least, he isn’t afraid.

“Remember the hammock, back in the clubhouse?” Eddie says softly. “I told you I liked you back then. I think I was just starting to realize that I liked you, and I didn’t know how to deal with it. I didn’t know how to acknowledge it to myself, let myself think about it. I just knew how much I’d wanted to be near you, but that’s the thing. No matter how far back I can remember knowing you, no matter how much you annoyed me, I wanted to be close to you.”

 _Yet another pang_. Richie’s arm tightens around Eddie as he feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He blinks them away. “Even when I joked about being your future step-father?” he asks, trying to sound like he’s not emotionally compromised.

“Somehow, incredibly, yes,” Eddie says, and, after a moment watching the screen, “Weird. I think this is the first thing I’ve seen Kevin Kline in since the nineties.”

When they’re tired enough to start winding down for the night but awake enough to plan for the next two weeks, Eddie shuts off his laptop and they talk living arrangements. Tomorrow, they can go through the kitchen and bathroom to see what they should get, and grocery-shop accordingly. Eddie starts his weekdays early, and, starting Monday, so will Richie. Eddie runs five or six mornings per week, and strength trains three evenings a week after work at his office gym, and only skips this if it’s a ninety-hour work week. Richie’s going to be on set between ten and fourteen hours a day for the next two weeks, and they go over his schedule to determine which work day they’ll be able to actually sit down and enjoy more than an hour of free time together.

“I almost forgot we have adult responsibilities and shit,” Richie says.

Eddie looks over his calendar. “Well, we have most of the rest of this week to keep forgetting that,” he says. He glances over at Richie and smiles. “More incentive to make it count, right?”

Richie’s had roommates. He’s dated anyone long enough to live with them, and the differences are stark; taking turns using the bathroom and getting ready for bed aren’t meant to be groundbreaking milestones, but everything feels significant to Richie, especially as they actually get into bed.

It takes a little while longer to sleep, and they find themselves shifting without thought, and Richie had no real expectations. But laying on his left side, on the left side of the bed, with Eddie curled up behind him feels right; even more so when Eddie loosely wraps one arm and him and slides one leg between his.

Tonight, at least, he sleeps easily.

…………….

Richie wakes up to a warm press of lips on his cheek, and opens his eyes to the shape of a face leaning over him.

“Hey, Richie,” Eddie says, “Just letting you know I’m going out for a run. I’ll be back in about an hour, hour and a half. I made coffee for whenever you want any.”

Richie grunts an affirmation and reaches out for what he hopes is the direction of Eddie’s face and he hears Eddie chuckle as he catches his hand and presses a kiss to Richie’s temple.

Eddie’s gone by the time Richie’s awake enough to get out of bed, go to the bathroom, and pad into the kitchen to pour himself some coffee. Eddie doesn’t appear to have any novelty mugs except company-related ones. He makes a mental note to incorporate embarrassing mugs piecemeal under Eddie’s nose until he notices.

He figures he’s awake enough to brush his teeth, check his emails, check twitter and look over his schedule for the next week.

He’s made a small nest for himself in the living room doing this, and is fully alert by the time Eddie comes back, sweating and wearing a short-sleeved shirt and pair of running shorts.

When they were kids, Richie didn’t have any special attachment to any one of Eddie’s clothes. They were all a part of Eddie’s ensemble, and therefore a part of Eddie, and so he had a fondness for each of them—including shorts that had seemed more suited to a younger child—but there were none that had actively sparked his curiosity.

They are no longer kids.

Richie stares as Eddie unlaces his running shoes and stretches after waving hello. “You wouldn’t believe how warm it is today,” Eddie tells him. “For November in New York, anyway. I’m sure it’s average for LA.”

“That why you’re wearing those shorts?” Richie asks, because Eddie’s shirt is lined with sweat, under his arms and in a stripe down his chest, his legs bared to a line of black spandex running below the hem of those _shorts_ , that cut off early and show off the muscles in his thighs; sinewy, hairy, and slightly tanned. Richie stands, unthinking, and makes his way over to where Eddie’s toed off his running shoes and only now sees the look in Richie’s eyes.

“Really?” Eddie asks, seeming not upset but taken aback, before he seems to play into it. His face opens into a small smile as he looks up at him.

“Really,” Richie tells him, and pulls him in for a kiss. His hands trail down Eddie’s hips and to his ass, which he gives a quick squeeze. Eddie gasps against his mouth and grabs Richie’s hips.

Richie’s torn between taking off Eddie’s shirt and deepening the kiss, and chooses the first, pulling back and tugging at the hem until Eddie gets the picture and pulls it up and off him, throwing it to the side with the certainty that he’ll clean this up when they’re done.

“Come on, Richie,” Eddie says, eyes dark as he slides his hands under Richie’s shirt, “ _You too_.”

Richie obeys, impatient, before his hands are back where he wants them, one on Eddie’s ass, the other feeling under Eddie’s shorts to find beneath aren’t quite boxer-briefs but—

“It’s under-armor,” Eddie says, almost stammering as Richie rubs the heel of his palm against his growing bulge. “It, uh,” he takes a deep breath, “absorbs the sweat. And keeps your balls from schlepping out of your shorts.”

“Cool,” Richie says, and slides his hand under the tight black fabric and over Eddie’s cock.

Eddie groans, eyes closing briefly before they snap back open.

“Wait, wait,” he starts, stilling Richie’s hand before he can pull Eddie out of those fucking shorts. “This could be…” he glances around Richie and something sets in his face before he’s leading Richie backwards towards his couch.

Richie lets Eddie guide him until he’s half-sitting on the arm of it, where he’s suddenly the shorter man.

“You have longer legs than me,” Eddie tells him. “It would’ve made it awkward for me to do this...” and he reaches down and grabs Richie through his boxers; his confidence is already growing, and with good fucking reason. 

Richie’s maybe not in the most comfortable position, awkwardly half-sitting on, half-standing against Eddie’s couch as he pulls Eddie out and tugs the waistbands of his shorts and under-armor down, as Eddie uses his free hand to cup the back of Richie’s head and pull him into a kiss.

It’s quick work from there, lining up against one another, one hand on the other working at the same pace. Richie’s free hand trails behind Eddie to grab his ass, and he enjoys the responding moan as he squeezes one cheek.

He feels his hips stutter as Eddie swipes his thumb over the tip. He’d wonder how much of this is because Eddie seems to have a talent for touching Richie, or because he’s wanted this very thing for such a long time, but he doesn’t last long. His only hope is to make sure Eddie’s as needy for it as he is.

He glances up at Eddie’s face, and it seems like he’s near the finish line as well. A flick of his wrist, a faster speed on both ends, and Eddie’s coming at the same time as Richie, both slumping forward immediately afterwards as they catch their breaths.

After a moment, Eddie says, “I think, before anything else, we should shower first.”

“Together?” Richie asks dumbly, blaming his orgasm for the oxygen only just returning to his brain.

“I think that was implied, Richie,” Eddie says, and tugs Richie up with his clean hand.

Eddie’s shower is effectively a large stall with no bathtub but a detachable showerhead for which Richie has no immediate plans but is happy exists regardless.

Mostly he just feels like the world’s luckiest idiot to be sharing a fucking shower with Eddie. If it weren’t for the fact that Eddie seems every bit as interested, Richie would probably be freaking out.

“How’re you handling this so well?” Richie finds himself asking, wishing he had his glasses on to better see Eddie’s face.

“How do you mean?” Eddie asks.

“Being with another man. I threw up after my first time blowing a dude.”

Eddie seems to consider this as he rubs shampoo into his hair, then reaches out to do the same for Richie. “I think I internalized everything differently. No one ever tried to out me as a kid; Pennywise found something else to focus on to freak me out. And I was anxious about sex in general. As far as how I’m handling it, well. You’re not the only one with a lot of lost time to catch up on with someone you’ve wanted for a long time, Richie.” And before he guides Richie under the water, he leans up to press a kiss to his lips. 

…..

Grocery shopping with Eddie isn’t an entirely new experience; as kids they’d manage to find a rhythm picking and choosing the cheapest things available at the local corner store, and as adults, while both their budgets and needs have changed, that remains the same. Eddie knows the place, what appears to brand itself as a semi-health food grocery store, better than Richie does, but Richie only really knows how to cook a few things that would qualify as a balanced meal and it seems neither of them will be eating at home all that much over the next couple of weeks, so neither of them need to get much.

Richie isn’t surprised that Eddie’s something of a meal-prepper, or that he regularly consumes things like pea protein powder and air-chilled, organic boneless skinless chicken breasts. Eddie, however, seems surprised that Richie’s willing to get a “healthier” box of pasta to go with the jarred sauce and ground beef he plans on utilizing at some point to make dinner for them. 

Almost everything goes into the freezer or in the cupboards when they get home, except the things Eddie plans on cooking, dividing into Tupperware, and _then_ freezing. Eddie’s modest home bar is enough for the time being (“I remembered that you like the brown stuff—oh my God, that’s gross, stop laughing—so I picked up a couple of bottles that seemed promising”) and soon Richie has nothing else to do as far as making himself at home goes. He sets up his laptop to connect to Eddie’s wi-fi and goes between trying to think of new material and shitposting on twitter as Eddie preps and freezes several quick dinners for the next couple of weeks.

“They’re for you, too, if you want any,” Eddie calls out to him from the kitchen as he works, and as soon as he’s done and the kitchen is spotless once more makes his way to the living room.

At least, he does before his cell phone goes off and he curses as he recognizes the work number.

“Yeah, can’t come in, sorry. I’m hosting someone from out of town,” he says. And after a few minutes, “He caused the emergency, surely he can find a way to fix it?” More radio silence, then Eddie sighs, giving Richie a defeated look. He mouths, _sorry_ , before saying, “If you email me the document I can patch it up, but I can’t come into the office until tomorrow. Yes, I’m sure.”

He hangs up and curses again, a fantastic string of obscenities and business lingo that makes Richie grin despite himself.

Eddie turns to him. “You know I used to resent the hell out of people who left the office at five and asked for time off?” he says, before flopping down on the chair opposite Richie and opening his laptop. “Fucking Gordon Gecko wannabes thinking the ‘greed is good’ speech was supposed to be aspirational, putting me through their bullshit,” he mumbles before sighing and looking back up at Richie. “I am so sorry, man. I should’ve expected this. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

“Eddie,” Riche starts, watching Eddie get up again and cross over to the kitchen for what’s now lukewarm coffee that he sticks in the microwave.

“I’m really sorry, Richie. I kind of built up this reputation for myself as this guy who put work before everything and I wasn’t even trying to. I just didn’t want to admit I was fucking miserable with _her_.”

“So, if you were still married to her and spending your day off with her, and your work called and asked you to come into the office, you would’ve gone in?” Richie asks, watching Eddie come back and sit across from him.

Eddie sighs as he reaches for a coaster and sets it down before his coffee mug. “I mean, yeah. I was also kind of a shitty husband.”

Richie waits until Eddie’s looking him in the eye once more before he says, “Well, for the record, you’re _not_ a shitty boyfriend. And we had no specific plans for today that you’re ruining with this. Right now I’m content to just hang out here, and when you’re done cleaning up some idiot coworker’s mess, we can head out and do something else to take your mind off work. Sound good to you, Eds?”

Eddie blinks, glancing down at his laptop and back at Richie before his features soften. “Yeah, Rich. That sounds good,” he says, and gets up. He wordlessly crosses around the coffee table and bends down to kiss him. Richie cups Eddie’s cheek and brushes his thumb over the scar. 

As it turns out, working in tandem isn’t too difficult, at least not for Richie, whose definition of “work” is floundering at best today. He’s tweaking and working on a new set, something he’d like to last an hour. A Netflix special, if he can swing it, and when he thinks his material is polished enough. He’s almost relieved for the emails he has to sift through.

One’s from Steve; a suggestion that since he’s in Chelsea he may as well stop by the Comedy Cellar, if not to do standup then to at least make his presence known. He mulls it over as he reads over ideas for a bit about clowns. 

After an hour, Eddie announces, “Done!” and shuts down his laptop. He smiles at Richie. “Alright. It’s still kind of early. What do you want to do with the rest of the day?”

Richie thinks. “Do you actually like stand-up comedy?”

Eddie’s smile falters. “I guess?” he says. “I like a lot of your newer stuff. I like that guy, the one who’s really blowing up right now…”

“John Mulaney?”

“That guy. He’s good. I don’t really follow anyone else. Why?”

Richie feels like more of an asshole as usual when he says, “I was wondering if you wanted to go to a comedy club tonight.”

And Eddie surprises him by saying, “Sure.”

Richie blinks. “Really?”

“The one that’s near the apartment, right? Yeah, I’d be game.” Eddie’s still sitting there, looking completely unfussed.

“Really? Even if I’m not the one performing?” Richie asks.

Eddie raises his eyebrows. “Richie,” he says. “I have limited amount of time that I get to spend with you. If you asked me to take you to the Coney Island boardwalk or Madison Avenue or New Jersey for the night, I’d do it.”

Richie chokes on his laugh. “So, uh.” He scrambles to think of a plan for them. “I’ll get back to Steve and see if we can get a last-minute reservation, and grab dinner afterwards?”

“Sounds good. Uh,” Eddie hesitates. “Do your people know about me?” he asks.

Richie knew this was coming. “All they know is that I’m dating a man,” he says. And after a moment, adds, “Steve is the only one who knows my boyfriend lives in New York, but that’s all he knows. I figured you were outed once; I don’t want you to go through anything like that again.”

Eddie looks down. “I appreciate that. And I guess we’ll figure out the rest when you know how you want to come out,” he says.

“How’s your new stuff coming along?” he adds.

Richie smiles again. “You’d never believe it, but clowns are involved,” he says.

……….

“You were very nice to that one girl,” Eddie says. They’re sitting at a high-top table at what the menu describes as “an upscale pub.” 

“She _was_ talented. She was just nervous,” Richie says, grabbing a fry. “Besides, at this point I’m pretty sure everyone knows I have no right to make fun of people for freezing up onstage.”

“She was better than that guy, the one with the buzzcut. Jesus. I thought people only said ‘cuck’ ironically.”

“He’ll probably find a niche market,” Richie tells him. “Probably already has one, maybe on Youtube, complaining about Clinton’s election leading to a new army of social justice warriors.”

When they get home Eddie takes advantage of their privacy to kiss him hard and deep. 

“Bedroom?” he suggests, as if Richie’s mind hadn’t already gone there.

Eddie sucks Richie off for the second time in as many days after stripping Richie completely below the waist and opening the front of his Hawaiian shirt. Richie’s breath comes in ragged gasps the moment Eddie sinks to his knees, let alone when he runs his free hand along Richie’s inner thigh and takes breaks from moving his mouth over him to nip at his other thigh, and to run his mouth over Richie’s balls.

“ _Fuck!_ ” _How is he already good at this?_ He tries to hold off as long as he can, warn Eddie that he’s coming, and Eddie remains as bullheaded as before, keeping his mouth on him until Richie’s finished and panting, and hauling Eddie up to suck his cock from his seated position on the edge of the bed. He’s too eager to do much other than guide Eddie to thrust into his mouth as he cups Eddie’s hips to him. He keeps registering that Eddie’s hands in his hair are a soothing caress, and ignores it as he coaxes Eddie into his second orgasm of the day.

From there, worked up and sated yet again, they relax in bed watching an action movie they both find so generic Richie forgets what it’s called almost immediately.

“I have work in the morning,” Eddie says. “They’ll chew me out for not coming in on my day off.”

“I’ll find a way to make it up to you,” Richie tells him.

……..

Friday, Eddie’s getting ready for work by the time Richie wakes up, and Richie, figuring there are worse things to see first thing in the morning, puts on his glasses.

Eddie’s just getting his tie on, checking himself in the full-length mirror as he does so, when he sees Richie watching him in the reflection and smiles, turning around.

“Morning, Richie,” he says. “I’ll try to get home as early as I can. There’s still some leftovers in the fridge that are all yours.” He gets his jacket from the closet once he’s done and swoops over to the bed to give Richie a quick kiss.

“Text me when you’re done with work?” Richie asks, sitting up.

“Promise,” Eddie tells him, and soon he’s gone.

With the day to himself, Richie doesn’t have anything he really _needs_ to do. 

He takes a walk, passing into Greenwich Village and some of his old college haunts before he dropped out, thinking he could do it on his own with massive student loans but no degree to back it up. He liked it here when he was nineteen. He can like it again.

He ends up spending most of the day this way, wandering the edges of tourist traps and getting a metrocard to take the subway aimlessly. There’s a tug here, something he needs to acknowledge. His future is going to look different with Eddie in it, no matter where he stays or goes. His career isn’t going to be the same no matter what. Would it really be that much different if he was living in New York for it?

By five, he figures he should head back, remembering Eddie talk about dreading coming home after work and thinking, _I could be the person that he’s excited to come home to_. The thought thrills him maybe more than it should, but he doesn’t feel guilty about it, not when five minutes after getting home he gets a text from Eddie telling him he’s on his way.

It’s the thought that persists when Eddie comes through the door in his suit with his briefcase, when Richie crosses the room and drops to his knees in front of him. When Eddie’s eyes widen and he nods, breath catching, one hand sliding into Richie’s hair and his cock visibly stiffening in his pants. When Richie presses Eddie against the door, unfastens the front of Eddie’s slacks, and pulls Eddie’s cock out.

 _I want to be the person he’s happy to come home to_. He takes Eddie as far as he can manage, working his mouth over Eddie at a pace he can barely keep up but for the way Eddie moans and his body tenses, clearly trying his best not to fuck Richie’s mouth. He’s fucking hungry for it; they both are.

 _I want you_ , Richie wants to tell him as he moans around Eddie, _and I want you to know how badly I want you_.

Eddie doesn’t last long, coming with a harsh gasp and both hands in Richie’s hair. He pulls his hands away, cupping Richie’s face instead as Richie pulls off of him and tucks him back into his pants. His mouth is open is he regains his senses, before he says, “Come up here,” and Richie obeys.

Eddie immediately switches them around, pressing Richie against the door as he kisses him hard and deep, coaxing his mouth open as he fumbles with Richie’s belt and fly. Richie gives himself over to him, just like he knows he will again and again, and sighs as Eddie pulls him out and gets down on his knees.

He feels like it’s an almost out of body experience, Eddie kneeling before him in a suit, his hair carefully slicked back, as Eddie takes him into his mouth. He’s more confident each time he does this, secure in his grip around the base of Richie’s cock and his free hand sliding behind Richie to cup his ass as he takes him in deeper, moving with more ease than he had just two days ago, and once again ignoring Richie’s warning as he keeps going. He lets Richie come in his mouth and keeps going until Richie’s completely softened.

He also recovers faster than Richie; he tucks him back in and rises to his feet before saying, “I’ve thought about doing that all day.”

Richie’s still stunned. The best he manages is what must be a confused smile. “TGIF,” he says.

Eddie grins back and pulls him down for another kiss.

…….

“So, we had sex while I was wearing my suit, just like you wanted,” Eddie says, a breezy little grin on his face as he pours Richie a finger of Basil Hayden and fixes a gimlet for himself. “That got scratched off the list pretty quickly.”

Richie smiles back. “And it was awesome, but I had specifically also thought about you wearing the suit while we,” he tilts his head and, feeling both awkward and juvenile, gestures with his thumb and his opposing finger.

Eddie’s eyes widen as he sets down the gin. “Uh, yeah?” he says. And then, with a hesitant smile, he asks, “And while I was wearing the suit, would it be me fucking you or you fucking me?”

It’s a shame Richie’s only just come, because the images that question conjures up are endless. Richie riding Eddie on the couch while Eddie’s in a suit like it’s history’s most obscene lapdance; Richie fucking Eddie on all fours as Eddie braces himself against the headboard. 

“Yes,” Richie says, and when he sees the wheels turning in Eddie’s head and waits to hear a possible verdict.

“I will keep that in mind,” Eddie says, face pinker than it was just a second ago. “And, speaking of which,” he adds, “I was thinking, since we’ve already done a few of the things we talked about on Tuesday night, I figured we should maybe keep going, like maybe have me ride your dick.”

Richie’s breath leaves him in an instant and regains it just enough to speak. “I’m still fucking amazed that _that’s_ how you want to bottom for the first time, being on top and doing everything.” But of _course_ that’s how Eddie wants it; fucking intrepid as he’s ever been.

Eddie quirks one eyebrow. “Are you complaining?” he asks.

Richie gives a breathless little laugh. “Not at all,” he says.

Eddie kisses him, softly, before pulling away. “Tomorrow, then? After I’ve done my workout and showered?” he asks.

“Literally any time you want, Eds,” Richie tells him. “Seriously, if I hadn’t just come the idea alone would be getting me harder than a fucking trig exam.”

Eddie hands Richie his bourbon. “No fucking kidding,” he says. “If I hadn’t just come, wasn’t really hungry, and hadn’t had a fucking soul-crushing day at work I’d suggest we try it tonight. Cheers.” He clinks glasses with Richie and smiles.

…..

Eddie goes for a late-morning run while Richie quietly tries not to freak out over the fact that he’s going to be balls-deep inside of him by the end of the day, and greets Eddie when he returns with a quick kiss before Eddie ducks into the shower. Instead, he spends aimless time checking his email and twitter before he strips down to his boxers, turns off his cell phone, and sits on the edge of the bed.

The sound of the water stops, and a minute later Eddie emerges, naked, hair wet, the burgeoning promise of an erection between his legs before he crosses the bedroom and leans down to cup Richie’s face in his hands and kiss him.

“Take those off,” Eddie tells him in between kisses, and Richie tugs his boxers down his legs, letting them fall to the floor as they pass his knees, and together they move back along the length of the bed, Eddie straddling him, breaking the kiss only to reach for the lube on the nightstand and setting it beside them. Richie groans, already helpless, clutching Eddie’s ass as their cocks brush together, and groans again when Eddie stops him and seems to think, glancing around the bed.

“I think it would be easier this way,” Eddie says, and pulls off of Richie, shifting halfway to his front against the bed, one leg bent, his breath coming faster. Richie sits back and takes a moment to look at the muscle in Eddie’s thigh where it meets his ass. His hand joins Eddie’s at the crease of his ass, and he wonders, briefly, if Eddie would let him fuck him from behind in the future. 

In the meantime, though, he watches Eddie slowly push the tip of one finger inside himself, taking deep, shaky breaths as he goes in deeper, with more ease than Richie had managed with himself. He pushes back against Richie, and Richie---

“Can I do it?” he asks, stunned and desperate to be the one opening Eddie up for him, the one who can learn his body as well as his own. And he waits until Eddie turns his head back and looks at him with wide eyes and nods.

“Yeah. Sure, Rich,” Eddie manages, and pulls his finger out, waiting for Richie to coat his fingers in lube and press against him.

Eddie’s _tight_ , but pliant enough that he immediately responds to Richie’s first finger. He gasps as he presses back and takes him in to the second knuckle.

“Fuck, Richie,” Eddie manages, squirming as Richie experiments with curling his finger forward, like he’d done to himself weeks earlier, like he’d been too nervous to do to himself since. Seeing Eddie, though, he’s reminded of what he learned, and twists the one finger inside of him, and watches Eddie’s breath immediately grow harsh. 

It’s not long before he has one finger all the way in, crooking forward and watching Eddie’s cheeks darken as he reaches behind him to grab for Richie, and what is Richie to do but to settle closer behind him? 

“Hey, doing good?” Richie asks, trying not to sound desperate, the brush of his cock against the back of Eddie’s thigh saying otherwise.

“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie tells him, and takes a deep breath. “I think I’m ready for a second.”

“You sure?” Richie asks.

“Wait, it might be better if…” Eddie pushes his top leg further forward, presses back against Richie. “Yeah. That’s good.” He takes a shuddering breath as Richie adds more lube to his fingers and presses two against Eddie’s rim, circling it before pressing in.

Eddie is so fucking beautifully responsive, soft gasps and subtle rocking as Richie slowly inches his fingers in, deeper and deeper, the two of them working together.

“Just, uh, just curl your fingers forward, Richie,” Eddie tells him once Richie’s fingers are inside him to the last knuckle. “Yeah. _Fuck_ , like that. Just like that.”

And Richie watches, fascinated, complying easily, feeling the muscles clenching around him, and the give of it once the movement of his fingers gets easier, and Eddie adjusts. 

“Are you…” Richie’s mouth is dry. He tries again. “You think you’re ready?” he asks.

Eddie gives a shaky little laugh. “Yeah, not to stroke your ego, Richie, but having handled your dick, I’m pretty sure I’m going to need a third finger before I’m ready for it.”

Richie takes a deep breath and tries for three, pressing in only slightly, feeling much more resistance and stopping to let Eddie adjust.

“Oh, _fuck_.” Eddie’s broken out into a sweat. He’s panting, clenching tight around the tips of Richie’s fingers. 

“Does it hurt?” Richie asks, almost panicking at the thought of doing anything to hurt Eddie, and, selfishly, thinking that if it’s too much for Eddie, it will _definitely_ be too much for him.

Eddie pauses and shakes his head. “No, not really. It’s just really tight, y’know? I’ve only ever had two of my fingers, not three of yours.”

Richie doesn’t know what to say or do to that, except run his free hand along Eddie’s flank in what he hopes is a soothing motion, before crossing and sliding down his stomach to reach his cock, softening at the discomfort, before giving him a couple of jerks. 

Eddie lurches forward into Richie’s hand with a sharp, “ _Ah!_ ” yanked out of him before he slowly, hesitantly presses back against Richie’s fingers just a fraction. And they find that that’s what works, Eddie deciding when to take Richie in deeper as Richie stimulates him another way.

“You’re fucking amazing, you know that?” Richie says, as Eddie takes Richie’s fingers in another fraction, bit by bit, reaching halfway.

Eddie scoffs. “You feel confident saying that while I’m like this?” he asks, turning his head so Richie can get a look at his raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, I do, man,” Richie tells him, and Eddie’s brows furrow, face softening before he takes a deep breath before sliding partway off of Richie’s fingers only to sink back on, drawing a harsh gasp out of them both. Eddie’s cock has started filling out as they’ve gone, and Richie reaches past him with his free hand to help him along the way, to get him to where he himself is completely stiff and aching to be inside Eddie. And Eddie—Eddie takes to it immediately, rocking back on Richie’s fingers and forward into Richie’s fist until he’s managed to take Richie’s fingers down to the knuckle.

“Okay,” Eddie mutters, breathless for a moment, as he rocks his hips on Richie’s fingers, as if testing the waters. “That’s good, Richie. I think—” he shifts his hips again, and from there he gives a soft moan. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

“Yeah?” Richie repeats, and twists his fingers inside of Eddie to elicit another, louder moan and watches, fascinated, as Eddie arches his back.

“ _Yeah_.” Eddie guides Richie hand, coaxing his fingers out before he turns over on his other side, and reaches for Richie’s cock, working his hand over it as he says, “I want this in me.”

“Jesus Christ,” Richie breathes, ready to give Eddie anything he wants, stunned that this is even happening.

“Come on, big guy. Lay back for me,” Eddie tells him, pushing gently at his chest, and Richie falls back, spread-eagled and pliant as Eddie climbs on top of him. Richie reflexively reaches out for Eddie, cupping his hips.

Eddie looks Richie in the eye, his eyes like coal as he takes the lube and pours enough on his fingers to serve as he reaches behind him and works it over Richie’s cock, jerking him a couple of times to make sure he’s fully stiff. He’s already flushed as he settles back on his knees, raised above Richie, and guides him in.

It takes a moment, Eddie’s eyes going wide and his mouth falling open as the head of Richie’s cock starts to breach him, and Richie—he’s about as dumb and slack-jawed as he’s ever been. All he can feel is the plush warmth surrounding the head of his dick, and Eddie’s free hand a brand on his stomach. All he can see is the stunned look on Eddie’s face as he sinks down a fraction deeper, a groan seeming to escape from his chest as his thighs tremble and he clenches all over.

“Eddie…?” Richie tries, but he’s lost. His ability to reason gone as the head of his cock has disappeared within Eddie.

“It’s good,” Eddie says quickly, shifting both hands to Richie’s chest as he tries to take deep breaths. “It’s just a lot. You feel fucking huge, Richie.”

Richie tries to think of an appropriate response. Instead he tries to smirk. “Well, maybe I’m not the fourteen inches I told you I was back in the day, but…”

“If you _were_ packing fourteen inches I wouldn’t bottom in a million years,” Eddie says as he lowers himself further, shifting one hand from Richie’s chest to brace behind him, one hand planted on Richie’s raised thigh.

It takes a few minutes; Eddie shifting down by degrees before stopping and evaluating the impact. His breath is harsh, even as he takes in gulps of air and exhales slowly, his grip on Richie’s thigh tightening.

“God, you’re doing good, Eds,” Richie whispers, eyes glued to what’s in front of him. He rubs his hands over Eddie’s thighs in what he hopes are comforting strokes, pausing only once to work briefly over Eddie’s softened cock. Eddie tries to scoff a laugh that turns into a low groan. 

“I’m also impressed you learned the terminology,” Richie says, hoping he’s providing any and all possible distractions from the discomfort Eddie must be feeling.

Eddie manages a sly grin. “Oh, yeah. Top, bottom, switch, topsy-turvy. I’m a fucking gay walking thesaurus.” 

Then he’s all the way in, his ass resting at Richie’s pelvis, and they’re both still, breathless.

And Eddie gently rocks his hips—back and forth, not too much all at once, and Richie’s breath catches at the feeling of that dragging motion, of Eddie hot and tight around him. He sees Eddie give a small gasp, as if he’d made a new discovery, before he lifts himself up partway before sinking down onto him again, and Richie gasps along with him. It’s _a lot_ on his end as well, all of this, and he can’t think of anything else to do other than keep running his hands along Eddie’s hips, down his thighs as Eddie first grinds and then rocks down against him.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” is all Eddie manages

If Richie had any brain cells left, he’d tell Eddie how fucking good he looks, he good he feels, that he’s brave and sexy and Eddie gradually learning to fuck himself on him is the hottest thing he’s ever experienced. Instead, he’s still dumbstruck, especially as Eddie starts to move up and down with greater ease and arches back, bracing both hands on Richie’s thighs as he fully begins to ride Richie’s cock.

“Eddie, _Eddie_ ,” is what Richie finally manages, stomach clenching as he feels himself disappear inside of Eddie again and again, all of it overwhelming with the sight of Eddie, flushed and hot, working Richie inside of him like he can’t get enough of it.

“Is it good, Richie?” Eddie asks him. His voice is as ragged as Richie feels right now, and the dam breaks.

“It’s so fuckin good, Eddie,” Richie says, fucking babbling, “You’re even better than I could’ve imagined on my cock. You’re fucking gorgeous. I wish this could last but I know,” he lets out a groan as Eddie lifts himself to the very head before immediately pushing himself back down, “I’m not going to last, dude.”

Eddie pauses, and Richie’s fucking starved for him; he arches his hips up only for Eddie to press one hand against his stomach in warning. And then he takes one of Richie hands from his thigh and guides it to his cock, which has stiffened again as he’s adjusted. Richie tightens his grip, drawing his thumb over the head.

“Yeah, alright,” Eddie says, and starts moving again.

Richie matches the rhythm of his hand around Eddie’s cock to Eddie on top of him, until he’s at the point of no return and Eddie hasn’t made any signs of slowing down.

“Eds, I’m gonna…”

“Come inside me,” Eddie tells him, his voice rough, and that does him in, head thrown back as he comes so hard he nearly loses consciousness, trying to keep his hand wrapped around Eddie through it all.

After the dark haze leaves, he registers that he’s still inside of Eddie, who’s finally coming over Richie’s hand, his stomach, before slumping forward.

Richie reaches out to trail his hands over Eddie’s back and sides as Eddie braces himself before slowly, gingerly slipping Richie out of him. Along with it Richie’s come spills between them, and Eddie makes an effort to reach over for the Kleenex on the nightstand before Richie grabs it first, wiping them down wordlessly.

“That was incredible,” he says, as if that word or any other could possibly sum up what just happened, how he feels, how much Eddie completely does him in.

Eddie sighs, sprawled like a lazy cat on top of him, and buries his smile against Richie’s chest. “I think,” he says, after a moment, “that this is something we should revisit.”

Richie smiles to himself as he runs one hand through Eddie’s damp hair. “How’d you do that?” he asks.

“Do what?” Eddie asks, not looking up. 

“You took to it like I couldn’t even imagine,” Richie says. “You knew how you wanted me to touch you.”

Eddie groans and shakes his head. “Not a chance,” he says. “You’re gonna laugh.”

“You’ve checked your own prostate, haven’t you?” Richie says, smile widening. “Purely for health reasons, right?”

“Well, _yeah_ ,” Eddie says. “Until recently, anyway. You need to start paying attention to those things when you reach your forties.”

Richie starts laughing. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “It’s just, _fuck_ , I love you. I _knew_ you’d say something like that.”

“You really should get that kind of thing checked out, though,” Eddie grouses.

“I figure that’s what I have _you_ for,” Richie says without thinking. Eddie lifts his head and raises his eyebrows.

“I’d be honored, Richard, but the first thing I’m going to do once I think my legs are working again is take another shower.”

….

“I think,” Richie says the next morning, “I’m ready for the next thing we talked about.”

Eddie furrows his brow for a moment, his coffee halfway to his mouth before the recognition sets in and he sets his mug down. “Really?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Richie tells him. “I, uh. Yesterday, aside from being the best sex of my life, kind of helped me. _You_ helped me.” At Eddie’s curious look, he continues. “You helped show me how it actually works, reminded me that it isn’t the horror show that I keep repeating in my head. That it can be good if you know what you’re doing. And you _do_ know what you’re doing, more than I do, anyway.”

Eddie’s eyes widen, and he hesitates. “It might not be a good idea to get fucked in the ass for the first time the day before a fourteen-hour shoot,” he says. “Why’d you think I wanted to try it for myself Saturday instead of Sunday when I have to work tomorrow sitting down for over ten hours straight?”

Richie has no choice but to concede. “How’re you feeling by the way?”

“Fantastic,” Eddie tells him. “Sore, but not too bad. Just enough that I’m gonna call this a rest day. And don’t get me wrong, I’m still interested in fucking you, but I think, if you want to try anything today, we’d need to start small.”

“Like the plug? Because Eddie, that’s also beyond what I’ve done—”

“No, not the plug,” Eddie says, and his face grows into a thoughtful smile. “I was actually thinking…”

……

Richie’s followed the same protocol as before. He hasn’t eaten in hours, has moved his bowels already, and is finishing up a long, thorough shower.

He shuts off the water, collects himself, and steps out, opening the bathroom door.

“Hey, Eds?” he calls, and Eddie looks up from his spot on the couch, where he’s been sitting in just his boxer-briefs and a t-shirt. “I’m, uh, ready.”

He disappears back into the bathroom, and Eddie meets him inside seconds later, shucking his shirt and underwear as he does and reaching for the lube he left on top of the sink.

Richie flashes a small smile as he gets into the shower and takes a deep breath as he braces himself against the wall.

“You alright, Richie?” Eddie asks, getting into the shower with him.

Richie nods. “Yeah, I’m good,” he says, and he is. For all that he’s a jangled pile of nerves more often than he can admit, there’s no one in the world he trusts more. If it’s Eddie who’s doing this, Eddie taking care of him like this, he’s fine.

“That’s good.” He feels a quick press of Eddie’s lips against his shoulder blade. “I’m going to go slowly, not going to do anything to surprise you. I’ll keep checking in with you, and I want you to be honest with me. Okay?”

“Got it,” Richie breathes, focusing on the tile in front of him.

“Great. Can you spread your legs a bit more for me?” and, as Richie complies, “Good, Richie. That’s perfect.” Richie tries to focus on deep breaths as he hears the squirt of lube and a pause as Eddie sets the bottle on the shower basket behind him and presumably warms up the lube in his fingers. Then there’s a moment of hesitation, in which a million possible variations of _Actually your hairy pale ass isn’t doing it for me_ pass through his mind before Eddie asks, “Hey, can you do something for me?”

“Sure,” Richie says.

“Can you take your right hand and kind of, hold your right cheek open for me?”

Richie almost laughs, feeling fucking absurd as he complies, and gasps as Eddie presses Richie’s other cheek apart before one finger, wet and slick, presses gently against Richie’s asshole.

 _Deep breaths, come on_ , Richie tells himself as he holds steady, feeling Eddie circle around the muscle in slow, lazy movements until Richie almost begins to relax, sensitive nerve-endings aside as he already can feel a trembling in his thighs, a twitch in his cock.

“Alright, Richie?” Eddie asks quietly.   
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, quickly, both wanting more and almost overwhelmed by how much this simple touch is doing to him. It had been enough when he’d tried to touch himself this way, but it’s a different beast _entirely_ with Eddie being the one to do it.

“Do you want me to try a finger?” Eddie asks, and Richie feels a coil in his gut as he says yes, waits for the intrusion.

Eddie’s fingertip presses up, just resting, before he starts to breach him, and Richie gasps immediately, forgetting even breath and staying calm as his spine goes rigid.

He feels Eddie stop, and before Eddie can ask, Richie says, “Keep going.” He did this before to himself weeks ago, at least tried to, but this is so inherently different. 

Eddie pauses a second longer before twisting his finger in just a fraction deeper, going _so_ slowly, _so_ gently, waiting for Richie’s reactions, and so far Richie’s keeping his composure, he thinks. He hopes, because the way Eddie twists his finger, even with the slow pace, has Richie’s breath faltering.

“Good, Richie?” he hears Eddie ask behind him, and he manages a nod. 

“Yeah,” Richie says, closing his eyes. “It’s good—it, uh.” He almost laughs, feeling dazed that right now, he’s in Eddie’s shower, getting tenderly fingered open by Eddie Kaspbrak himself. For all that he’d planned on it happening over the last couple of months, to actually _be here_ with _all this_ … “It’s really you, back there, Eddie. Isn’t it?” he says, knowing he must sound fucking insane right now.

But Eddie says, “Yeah, Richie. It’s me,” with all the patience in the world, and Richie’s heart swells.

And he’s not only now getting used to the feeling of Eddie’s finger in his ass, he’s curious to know how much more he can give him, because this was the farthest he got on his own.

“Can you…” Richie cautiously shifts, pushing back just a little bit, feeling his mouth fall open at just the hint of added pressure. “Can you give me a little more, Eds?” he asks, and feeling another quick kiss to his shoulder.

“Yeah, sure, Richie.” And the finger inside him twists, one way and then the other, pulling out partway before twisting back in a little further still. It doesn’t hurt, at least, not yet, but it sets of a deep ache, has Richie gasping and thinking about all the nerve endings, unexplored until so recently, that they’re going to discover.

“It’s good, Eddie,” Richie says, and he’s stunned to hear the need in his own voice already. “It’s—”

And Eddie withdraws his finger before twisting and curling his finger, pressing against him in such a way that makes Richie lurch forward, both hands slamming against the wall in front of him as he feels a startled yelp pulled out of him, feeling like a hook was snagged and yanked forward inside of him.

“Was that—” Richie tries to breathe, tries to collect himself. “Was that it?”

He can _hear_ the smirk on Eddie’s face as he hears, “Yeah, Rich, it was.”

“Can,” he tries to think, “Can you do that again?” 

“Yeah, Richie,” Eddie tells him; his voice is softer, his free hand briefly leaving the cheek of Richie’s ass to pat his hip. “Of course.”

And he pulls back, and Richie can feel the growing ease with which Eddie’s finger fits inside of him, only to twist and curl his finger the same way, hitting the same spot, hitting that same immediate nerve that makes Richie nearly rise up on the balls of his feet.

“Richie?” Eddie asks, pulling back, leaving an emptiness, an ache for his return.

“Don’t stop,” Richie says immediately. It’s a lot; it’s actually overstimulating, and he wants more of it.

“I’m not gonna stop until you tell me to,” Eddie says, his finger still partially inside of him. “I was just going to ask if you wanted two fingers.”

“Yes,” Richie says, no hesitation. The first finger’s already fitting with relative ease. He can take another. 

“You’re doing amazing, Richie,” Eddie tells him. “I’m going to have to pull out for a second, okay?” He waits for Richie’s shaky nod before withdrawing his finger, and Richie listens for the sounds of the lube being uncapped, for the additional squirt of it. His breath evens out as he goes back to spreading one cheek open for Eddie with the knowledge that as soon as Eddie’s gotten his fingers inside of him again he’ll be fucking useless.

The press of two is more of a challenge; Richie knew it would be, but even crossed together, Eddie’s fingers meet some resistance. Eddie was right in that it’s not _painful_ , but it could be if he’s not careful.

 _Then good thing Eddie’s been careful with you so far_ , he reminds himself, as he keeps his breathing in check.

Eddie twists his fingertips inside of him slowly, his other hand now holding Richie’s hip as he works.

“Everything alright, Richie?” he asks. “This movement good for you?”

“Yeah, it is,” Richie says, trying to think of something to say to make this moment feel lighter. “Kinda like turning a key.”

Eddie gives a small chuckle. “Yeah, I guess it is,” he says, as he presses in just a little more and with a turn of his wrist proves Richie’s point.

“Turn on the ignition to fucking…” Richie rests his forearms on the tile in front of him and thinks about how he’s stiffening the deeper, the longer Eddie goes, “make me come, I guess.”

“That is what I’m hoping to do, yes,” Eddie says, and while Richie would like to be able to make all the jokes about _pressing the button to activate_ , his vocabulary is limited right now to mostly just Eddie’s name and a series of expletives. 

“You’re taking this so well, Richie,” Eddie murmurs, almost absently, his fingers in deep enough to begin to curl them forward—not precisely where he’d been before, but enough to make Richie whine and press his hips back, ready for more. “I’ve wanted to do this since Derry, but I didn’t know if you’d done it before, if you were willing to try.” Eddie steps in closer, his fingers going deeper, Richie’s stance instinctively going wider as he wants more still. “Just can’t stop thinking, ‘ _how am I so lucky that this big, handsome, fucking amazing man is letting me touch him like this?_ ’”

Richie whimpers, feeling Eddie’s fingers sink deeper inside with every turn of his wrist, and with every pass it’s getting easier, and getting closer to the mark he desperately wants Eddie to touch on again.

And Eddie reaches that point, presses against him with the pads of two fingers curled together and Richie lets out a sob, hips jerking, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as Eddie rubs against him again, and again. Richie feels delirious; months ago he’d never entertained any facet of this moment right now: Eddie Kaspbrak with two fingers inside of him and ringing his prostate like a goddamn dinner bell. 

“Oh, _fuck,_ ” Richie repeats, voice climbing, ears ringing. He’s fully hard, he’s completely flushed, he’s fucking _shaking_. “I’m close, Eddie. I’m so fucking close.”

And he could scream when Eddie stops.

“ _Eddie_ —” he pushes back, tries to get Eddie’s fingers moving again, but Eddie still withdraws, and as he finally turns his head, he sees that Eddie’s reaching behind him with his free hand to turn on the shower nozzle, and to reach for the detachable showerhead. 

“Jesus Christ,” Richie says, and Eddie gives him a quick smile as he tests the water against his own thigh.

“Gonna wait until it’s warm enough first,” Eddie tells him, and leans up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then he starts moving his fingers inside him again.

Eddie doesn’t hold back anymore, insistently pushing up against Richie’s prostate again and again, and Richie cries out like he’s never made a fucking noise in his life, crossing closer and closer to the point of no return and not a hand laid on his cock. Tears prick up at the corners of his eyes. He thought he’d been prepared, and he really fucking wasn’t.

And then Eddie points the detachable showerhead towards Richie’s balls and the underside of his shaft.

Richie spasms, clenching around Eddie’s fingers as he cries out, spurting against the shower wall; his legs are trembling, his back bowed as he comes, and he can feel the tears trailing in faint tracks down his cheeks as he shakes around Eddie’s fingers, against the spray of water, against everything all at once.

Eddie keeps working him through the aftershocks, just a couple more thrusts before he points the showerhead towards the floor and stills his fingers.

Richie keeps himself braced against the tile. He’s convinced that if he moves his legs will go out from under him. 

“Hey, Richie,” Eddie tells him, “I’m going to pull my fingers out, and, uh. You’ll probably remember this, but it’s going to feel kind of weird, and that’s normal. You ready?”

“Ready.” Richie holds onto the wall in front of him as Eddie gently pulls his fingers out, as slow as when he’d first inserted them, and when he’s out Richie feels like he’s about to collapse.

Eddie seems to anticipate this, and wraps his arm around him, holding him steady. Richie vaguely notices that Eddie still has the detachable showerhead in his other hand to spray Richie’s come off the shower tile.

Richie notes this and turns around, lowering his forehead to Eddie’s, mouth finding his as he wraps an arm around Eddie’s shoulders and brings his other hand to Eddie’s cock. He knows it’s nothing, _nothing_ compared to what Eddie has done for him just now, but he needs to pay Eddie back and he doesn’t have the presence of mind for anything else. He finds Eddie partially stiff in his grasp and tries to pour everything he doesn’t know how to say into the kiss as he finishes Eddie off.

Eddie still holds him up, even as his hips buck into Richie’s hand, even as he comes.

“I’ve got you, Richie,” he says. “I’ve got you.” 

“Yeah,” Richie says, holding on with all he can, “Yeah, you do.”

………

Eddie, it seems, has changed his mind tonight about properly fucking Richie tonight. That is unless Richie’s completely misinterpreting the way Eddie’s slotted himself between Richie’s legs and running one hand over Richie’s ass.

“You think you’re ready, big guy?” Eddie asks, smirking before pressing his mouth to Richie’s, easing his tongue in and drawing out a leisurely kiss.

Richie eagerly responds, closing his eyes, arching up against him as he suckles on Eddie’s tongue

_and feels a rush of iron flooding his mouth_

Richie chokes and sputters, opening his eyes to see Eddie’s face, the color seeping out of it, his eyes wide, blood like tar spilling from between his lips.

_no, please god, no_

He doesn’t want to look down at the further damage and he has no choice, seeing the gaping hole left through his entire torso

_he was fucking gutted like a fish on a hook_

lifting up and up, raised above him like a human mobile

 _“Richie?”_ Eddie manages, voice high and scared, confused, unable to absorb the kind of pain no one could ever handle

“ _Richie!_ ” 

Richie jolts awake, voice hoarse, sitting up to see Eddie, alive and whole. His bare chest is whole. Richie unthinkingly buries his face against it, presses his face against Eddie’s beating heart as he realizes he’s getting fucking tears all over him.

“Richie?” Eddie repeats, sounding as scared as he was in…

Richie clutches him tighter, dipping his head to press his lips to the point where Pennywise had speared him through. He feels Eddie awkwardly pat his head, his shoulders.

“Richie? Can you tell me what’s going on?”

……

Five minutes later, they’re both sitting up in bed, cross-legged, facing each other. Eddie got Richie a glass of water he keeps clutched in his hands as he talks. He makes more eye-contact with it than he does with Eddie.

“I saw something in the Deadlights,” Richie says.

“Did you see us all die?” Eddie asks, sounding like his boyfriend didn’t just scare the hell out of him or like he doesn’t have to get up for work in a couple of hours. 

“No,” Richie says. He looks up, and with his glasses he can see the concern in the set of Eddie’s jaw and furrowed brow. “Just you.”

Eddie doesn’t seem fazed. “Pennywise was fucking with you,” he says. “I didn’t die; _It_ did.”

“I saw it happen, though. You saved me from the Deadlights and It gutted you. You were distracted helping me and I got you killed.”

Eddie’s eyes widen and he leans forward, setting his hand on Richie’s arm. “No, you didn’t!” he says emphatically. “I got distracted and _you saved my life_.” Eddie’s nostrils flare. His eyes look like saucers. “I was there, too. You got me out of harm’s way before It could hurt me.”

Richie doesn’t say anything, just takes a sip of water. He tries to think, isn’t there something special about Manhattan water? Isn’t that what New York pizza purists are always waxing poetic about?

Eddie squeezes his arm, and he looks up.

“I’m not going anywhere, Richie,” Eddie tells him.

“I know,” Richie says, and he’s almost certain that’s true.

“What you saw in the Deadlights wasn’t real. _This_ is.”

“I know,” he repeats, and he at least wants that to be true. He feels exhausted again, and sighs as he sets his water down on the nightstand. 

“Listen, Eddie, I’m sorry I freaked you out. We should get back to bed. We can talk about all this later.”

Eddie hesitates. “ _Are_ you going to talk about this later?” he asks.

“Yeah, I promise,” Richie says, and he isn’t sure if that’s true at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -As always, you can find me at ooihcnoiwlerh.tumblr.com  
> -Eddie in running shorts is a commonly used fic trope and you can pry it from my cold, dead fingers  
> -Bill Hader voices a character in Bob's Burgers, so I was tickled by the idea of Richie having that role  
> -If I can write an AU in which Eddie Kaspbrak lives, I can write an AU in which Trump lost the election

**Author's Note:**

> -You can find me at ooihcnoiwlerh.tumblr.com, where not one of my It-related posts ever showed up in the search engine but I still care deeply about the characters.  
> -So Richie and Eddie (and everyone else, really) have their demons and self-doubt, but this is ultimately meant to be optimistic for all of the Losers.  
> -Ben lives in Nebraska and Bev in Chicago in the book, but for the purposes of this fic (and I believe is movie-canon compliant) Bev lives in Manhattan and Ben in Suffolk County, NY.  
> -I may have a slight fixation on James Ransone's beautiful eyes. Sorry.


End file.
